(She Was A) Hotel Detective
by Zettel
Summary: 1965. Sarah Walker works as a detective in one of Chicago's and the world's finest hotels, The Palmer House. She finds skullduggery afoot in the hallways. That would be bad enough — but she also meets a man who intrigues her, and her heart decides it has a mind of its own.
1. First Floor, Lobby

A/N: I've nearly finished my non-fiction Chuck projects and I had this new idea. A novel. A period piece. The 60's. My apologies to _They Might Be Giants _for the song title I have pressed into service as my story's title.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter One: First Floor, Lobby

* * *

Sarah Walker glanced surreptitiously across the lobby, crossed her legs, brushing away a bit of imaginary lint from her skirt, her leg-crossing and brushing both covers for her visual sweep of the grand room beneath the beautiful, vaulted ceiling.

She stole a look up at the ceiling, the Rigal Grecian Art Deco murals, the massive, Tiffany and Company 24-karat, gold-winged candelabras. Expensive, opulent, overwhelming. The lobby made her feel like she was little.

She looked back down. Her skirt was pine green and she wore a lime green blouse above it, divided from the skirt by a black belt. Her low-heeled shoes were black too. The outfit, while nice, whispered '_librarian_'.

She carefully folded the city paper, _The Chicago Tribune,_ on her lap, finished, for now, using it as a prop. She could see the date at the top, Friday, November 5, 1965.

She had spent the morning as she typically did, watching guests check out of the Palmer House, the historic, luxurious hotel where she was one of two house detectives. She reached for her purse, stationed by her chair, and took out a small brass compact. She opened it and checked her appearance, giving herself a perfunctory smile, and rotating her head a bit, side-to-side.

Her long brown hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her glasses, the lenses non-prescription, were tortoise and blended into her hair, and hid, minimized, her blue eyes.

She had yielded to the hotel manager in order to get the job — she had dyed her hair and donned the glasses. The Palmer's manager, a former Marine named John Casey, a Korean War veteran, had been adamant that no woman as attractive as Sarah could achieve the anonymity a hotel detective had to have. Sarah had hated him a bit for insisting, but she also knew that he was right, so she had 'toned herself down', to use Casey's repeated, demanding phrase.

It had been the final sticking point: Casey had been impressed by her, by her resume, and she knew he was not simply being chauvinist. He was being chauvinist, but the truth was that most of the Palmer House's guests were far worse. She could not do her job if men kept hitting on her in the lobby. Eventually, someone would begin to wonder why she was so often there and would have guessed her either a prostitute — or a house detective. Either guess was problematic for her, interfered with the job.

So she had toned herself down — golden blond to mousy brown, flatteringly form-fitting to slightly frumpy — and managed to sit in the lobby unobtrusively, most often mostly hidden behind an unfurled _Tribune_. Watching. Listening. Considering. When she was not in the lobby, she was in her basement office, the one she shared with the other house detective, Devon Woodcomb. She spent little time in that office; usually, only a few minutes to begin and end her shift.

She checked her wristwatch. It was the time when she usually stepped out to get a cup of coffee, her break. Check-out was finished and the late morning-early afternoon lull had begun. Casey stepped out of the office and stood behind the massive, gleaming oak desk. He caught her eye for the briefest of seconds and nodded. He would be at the desk, watching, until she returned.

She put her compact back in her bag, picked it up, and her coat, folded on the back of the chair. She walked to the front desk. Without looking at Casey and without speaking, she put the newspaper on it.

The morning desk clerk, Morgan Grimes, slid it toward himself. He would return it to her when she came back. Inside the paper was her small notebook, the one in which she jotted often when working, making notes, keeping track.

Observation and prediction were two of her specialties; she was astoundingly good at seeing trouble coming, and knowing where, and when, and how, it would occur — and who would be responsible for it when it did.

Observation and prediction. Specialties.

She walked out the gleaming, revolving doors, putting on her coat, out from under the soaring ceilings of the Palmer House and out under the low grey sky, onto the cold, drizzle-swept street. She reviewed her past as she walked along, hunched forward into the wet, icy wind.

* * *

She had acquired her specialties by traveling a serpentine path.

Her mother had died when Sarah was just six, and she had been raised by a father who made a living as a con artist. He had involved her in the business right away, and she had been raised on the road, in motel rooms, moving from con to con. Just as Sarah was about to enter high school, her father had made a serious error: he had tried to con on a man who turned out to be an undercover CIA agent. Luckily, the agent, Robert Rizzo, had taken a liking to Sarah's father, Jack Burton, and to Sarah (he had a daughter around Sarah's age, he said), and he had intervened with the Agency's director, Silas Joad. For the next four years, Jack and Sarah were occasional off-the-book participants, conscripts, not volunteers, in CIA missions.

When Sarah graduated from high school, Silas Joad appeared at her door and...offered...her a job with the CIA. He estimated she had the makings of a spy, a remarkable spy. She took the job, not really sure she could have turned it down, and she went off to the Farm, to spy school, where she turned out to be far more than even Joad had imagined. She was at the top of her class in everything, outperforming the best male agents.

This had not made her popular. Not that she had ever been popular. Not in high school, where lies and shame kept her from opening up or making real friends, and not at the Farm, where competition reigned — and resentment rode high.

The men, of course, resented her most, and more or less openly, and took every opportunity to make a pass or grab at her, manhandling her, evidently believing that if one of them were to bed her, then some proper order would be restored — men, or a man, anyway, on top.

But Sarah had...aggressively refused the passes and had twice injured her manhandler, once permanently, and soon the efforts to bed her stopped. The bitter joke became that she had acquired her skills by choosing to become frigid, unsexed, and so soon she became the _Ice Queen, _first to the men, then to the other women (there were not many) and eventually even to the instructors. Defiant until the end, she had eventually embraced the nickname herself, turning their term of abuse into her shield and cudgel.

Joad had been delighted by her prowess at the Farm and had swooped in to claim her after graduation. He immediately began using her in top-priority infiltration missions. Her years with her father augmented the Farm's training, and she excelled in the field. But she rapidly became unhappy. Joad's empty patriotic rhetoric and her fellow agents' chilling pragmatism about the job and its limits, or lack of limits — it all began to turn her stomach. She felt low-grade nausea constantly.

By comparison, her cons with her father, while unforgivable, had seemed...less unforgivable, wrong but not...vile. But she knew better than to try to talk herself into a hierarchy of sins. She had done wrong as a girl, wrong again as a young woman, and now she wanted to do right.

* * *

Sarah pulled her coat closer around her, wishing that she had not left her scarf hanging in her apartment that morning. She had not expected the day to be — to feel — so cold.

* * *

The breaking point came after Joad sent her back to the Farm as a 'volunteer' subject in the Agency's new 'premier course', a three-week course in interrogation. Joad billed it to her as a chance to move up, to expand her skills. Again, he gave her a 'choice'. His.

But it turned out that the only way to secure a seat in the course was to agree to serve as a subject in it first. For three weeks, Sarah endured hell: she was deprived of sleep, starved then fed tainted food, forced to participate in staged executions.

One of the interrogation instructors — an instructor in hand-to-hand combat when Sarah went through the Farm the first time — decided to take advantage of her fatigue and sickness, pressing himself upon her. But she fought him off in a bloody melee and ended the fight by kicking him so violently between the legs that he needed an operation. He had also lost his front teeth and had a shattered wrist.

And that had been enough for Sarah.

She quit the CIA.

Joad resisted her decision and made a number of vague threats when he became convinced that she was serious, but he could not coerce her into staying. She signed the paperwork and she walked out of Langley, free at last of cons and covers, but also unemployed.

* * *

Sarah stepped into the revolving door of a small diner she frequented, _Patel's, _and stood for a moment enjoying the warmth of it, the odd, familiar smell of coffee and cumin and cigarettes, smoke hazing idly mid-air over the counter.

She shook off the cold.

She put her past out of her mind and waved in response to the wave from the diner's owner, Lester Patel. She waved but her heart was not in it. Lester served decent food and good coffee, but he was a constant annoyance. He was once convinced that it was him, and not his diner's proximity and coffee, that kept her coming back. She had disabused him of the notion, but he had bragged about her supposed infatuation with him so often to the regulars that he felt obliged to keep up the facade to save face. It had been bad enough when the innuendo was served up in hope that it would have the desired effect. It was somehow worse when it was served up out of secret defeat.

She was no longer sure the coffee was good enough to put up with Lester, but she was a creature of habit in many ways, slow to acclimate to people, and so she tended to stay overlong in situations that she should have escaped.

She took a spot on a stool at the counter and picked up the menu from beside the napkin dispenser. A habit: she did not need to look at the menu.

"Well, hello..._beautiful_."

The surrounding, syrupy words sounded from behind her, not from Lester, who stood in front of her, order pad in hand, an obligatory intimate smile on his face. Sarah rotated her stool to find herself looking into the handsome face of her most recent former employer, Bryce Larkin.

Bryce Larkin, _PI_. The best example, other than the CIA, of a habit, a situation she stayed in overlong when she should have escaped.

Bryce batted his long eyelashes at her and gazed at her through them, a favorite trick of his and one she had found endearing for the three dates it took before she had realized that Bryce had no intention of ever letting her move from secretary to detective, as he had promised when he hired her.

The only movement he had planned was from her office desk to his office couch, from her seated to her reclining, but doing his bidding in either posture.

She had figured that out but not until after she had gone out with him. After the third date, he had explained to her that his intention was to put M-R-S in front of her name not P-I behind it. That was to be her 'promotion'. She had quit the following Monday, and, not long afterward, she had applied for and gotten the Palmer House job.

The eyelash trick now just made Sarah want to punch Bryce.

"Hi, Bryce," Sarah responded in a tone as blankly gray as the day, "what are you doing here? I thought you only ate at...fancy...fancier...places."

Bryce nodded and flashed his neon white teeth — Sarah knew there was no such color but it seemed the only correct description of Bryce's half-moon, lunar-glow smile. Bryce was staring at her glasses, her brown hair. "True, normally, but today I decided to slum it…" he looked at her hair intently, "at least, you know, in terms of _cosmetics_…"

Sarah could not, would not follow for a second, then she reacted. "Oh, you mean, _comestibles_…?"

Bryce shrugged as if the comment was beneath notice. "That's what I said."

Lester raised his hand, ballpoint pen in it. "No, you said…"

"It's alright, Lester," Sarah offered quickly, cutting the short-order cook short. "Bryce knows what he said."

Sarah pointedly spun her stool around to face Lester and to de-face Bryce. Behind her, she heard Bryce curse beneath his breath.

Sarah, brightly: "Coffee, Lester, and a donut, if you still have a plain cake one around this late in the morning?"

Lester grinned as if they shared a secret and answered too loudly: "For you, Miss Walker, I always keep a donut waiting…" He walked down the counter and through swinging doors into the kitchen. Sarah watched him go, hoping Bryce would leave.

Sarah felt a hand on her shoulder. "Bryce," she said softly but with a threat, "don't make me injure your only steady girlfriend…"

She quickly spun the stool to see another man, not Bryce.

Bryce was walking out of the diner. Framed in the front window, she saw him stop and light a cigarette.

The new man was tall and nicely dressed, a trench coat over a navy bespoke suit. His hair was stalled somewhere on the way to curly from wavy, brown. She was giving the man Bryce's glare.

The man pulled his hand back as if he had touched a flame, his face hurt. "Sorry, Miss, but your purse...you spilled it when you spun your stool. I guess that other guy — the smile — didn't notice. But this is yours, right?"

She realized he had her Parker 51 fountain pen in his other hand. Her purse had toppled over, and a few items were on the floor, luckily nothing embarrassing, personally or professionally. Her extra tampon had remained hidden, as had her gun.

She bent down and scooped the things back into her purse and sat it upright. Then she extended her hand, and the man gave her the teal pen. It was the only item Sarah owned that had belonged to her mother's mother, and it was precious to her.

"Thanks," she said, looking up into the man's hazel eyes, "I appreciate you rescuing that. It doesn't look like much, but it's an heirloom."

He nodded, studying the pen more closely as she held it. "They're fine pens. I use one myself."

Lester cleared his throat. Sarah spun, more carefully this time, and saw Lester standing on the opposite side of the counter, a plain cake donut atop a paper doily on a small plate. "Your donut, Miss Walker…" Lester spoke the words and placed the donut on the counter with a flourish, all the while staring at the trench-coated stranger. Sarah looked down at the donut and up at Lester. "My coffee?"

"Oh, oh, right." Lester started away but the man in the trench coat sat down beside Sarah and called after him: "Make that two, please!"

Lester's shoulders hunched visibly but he did not turn around or otherwise acknowledge the man.

Sarah glanced at him. "The coffee here is good, at least worth having."

The man gave her a smile that lacked the lunar glow of Bryce's but which shone with a warmer, more human hue, dayglow, not moonglow. Bryce's smile was to be looked at; the trench-coated stranger's smile was meant to be shared, basked in.

Sarah smiled back at him. "I'm Sarah, by the way, Sarah Walker." She extended her hand, then realized she was still clutching her fountain pen. "Um, sorry." She reached down and slipped the pen into an inner pocket of her purse, then sat up and extended her hand again. "Take two…" she said with a soft laugh.

The man's smile grew in size and warmth. He shook her hand. "I'm Charles...that is...Chuck...Bartowski."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Bartowski."

His smile became a self-conscious grin. "No, really, _Chuck_. I mean, as long as that does not seem too familiar…"

"No," Sarah said with a chuckle, "that seems friendly. And although Lester calls me Miss Walker, you may just call me Sarah."

Lester arrived a moment later with two saucered cups of coffee. He put them down, careful to spill a portion of Chuck's into the saucer. Sarah's Lester did not spill. He walked away with a just-audible huff.

Chuck gave Sarah another grin and shrugged. "Coffee and attitude, I guess." He picked up his cup with one hand and slid his saucer from beneath it with the other. He put the cup down and then emptied the saucer into the cup, putting the saucer down after it dripped the last. Then he put the cup back down on the saucer. "See, good as new…" He glanced at her doily-riding donut and shrugged again. "But not fancy. Looks like some rate and some don't, some really don't. "

Sarah felt herself blush. Not a common phenomenon. "Don't pay any attention to Lester, he's...well, Lester."

Chuck nodded. He sipped his coffee. "Hey, that is good. I didn't get much sleep last night." He took another sip, longer. "Maybe I can get a cup to go — for my meeting?"

"Business meeting?" Sarah could not prevent the question.

Chuck bit his lower lip while shaking his head. "Yes, business. That's the reason for this monkey suit."

"Expensive monkey," Sarah said, glancing at his suit, her eyes sliding down to his Italian leather dress shoes.

His eyes followed hers to his feet. He laughed and sighed all at once. "Very expensive monkey. But I'm not really the monkey I seem."

Sarah turned her stool to face him. "I don't understand. It's a nice suit."

"It is. Very nice. My sister…" he paused then decided to finish, "...she bought it for me. Insisted I get it, wear it, for the meeting…"

"And your sister can afford the...expensive monkey?"

"Yeah. She was married for three years to an actor. Back in LA. He died doing one of his own stunts in the filming of a movie, left her everything…Do you remember Aidan Mills?"

"No, but I've never really been much for movies, TV, music, popular stuff. I read some but mostly the classics."

"Oh, well, Aidan was in a big, lavish, costume-production of _Great Expectations_ a few years ago, back before he was killed. _Cleopatra _gone Victorian England. Maybe you…"

"No," Sarah interjected. "Read the book. Why see the movie? It would just mess up the way I imagined it all when I read it."

Chuck laughed. "I know you're right, but if I love a book, the temptation to see the film always wins out for me in the end. I'm curious how someone else imagines it, I suppose."

Sarah shrugged in thoughtful silence, breaking her donut in two. She slid half of it toward Chuck, leaving that half on the doily while pulling a paper napkin from the steel napkin holder. She sat her half on the paper napkin. Chuck watched the maneuvering in obvious amusement. He gestured at the half before him. "For me?"

Sarah nodded but did not speak. "I don't know. When you imagine something, you can't imagine it all, every detail. But the details you imagine are the ones that seem to you to matter, to carry the story. Why do you need to know how someone else imagines it?"

Chuck whistled soft and low, his cheeks bulging a little as he did. "Huh. That's kinda deep for donuts."

Sarah took a bite of her half. Chuck took one of his.

Sarah sipped her coffee and then smirked genially at Chuck, swallowing her bite before responding. "So, pastries and profundities don't mix?"

Chuck took another bite, shaking his head while considering her question. "Not for me, but I now see that's a personal issue, not a universal truth. I must have a hard time thinking straight when…" he slowed his cadence and looked at her, "...when I'm eating something sugary sweet."

Sarah felt her blush return, heighten. Chuck had somehow made that comment seem very much a compliment. And with Sarah all toned down too.

Sarah turned away from Chuck and finished her donut, trying to conceal her blush. It was unlike her to make conversation like this, particularly like _this_, and she was unsure why she was doing it. Chuck was attractive and well-dressed, but she saw attractive, well-dressed men by the dozens daily; she could barely move through the Palmer House lobby without bumping into one. That was one reason she preferred her chair in a corner.

Chuck addressed himself to the remainder of his donut and he then sipped more coffee. He glanced at his watch and pulled some bills from his pocket, looking at the abbreviated menu sign over the grill for prices. "The donut and the coffees are on me, Sarah Walker, if that's okay. I'll pass on the to-go cup, I think. It was a pleasure to meet you." He put a couple of dollars down and gave her a long, earnest look, waiting.

"Thanks, Chuck, that's nice of you." He started to get up but Sarah could not keep herself from going on. "Are you in town for long?"

Chuck shook his head. "Not really sure. It depends on my meeting today. If it goes well, I may be around for a while. If not, I may head back to LA in the next couple of days." He stood and Sarah took him in, shoes to curls, fully aware for the first time how just how tall he was, just how well the expensive suit fit him. But her eyes lingered in contact with his. She saw something there that she did not completely understand, something unfamiliar and that overran her workaday categories.

Until she felt something that was familiar, workaday — that tell-tale tingle that told her trouble was traveling her way. Observation and prediction. She knew her blush was gone.

"It was nice to meet you too, Chuck. Good luck with the meeting." She heard a business-like tone creep into her voice.

He seemed like he wanted to say more but did not know what, so he just grinned weakly and nodded. "Keep warm, Sarah Walker."

A moment later, he was gone, the wind whipping through the briefly open door reminding Sarah of how cold it was outside.

* * *

A/N: This begins the first arc, _Sudden Thaw._


	2. TGIF?

A/N: More Hotel Detective.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Two: TGIF?

* * *

Friday, November 5, 1965

* * *

Sarah slipped into a stairwell at the end of a long hallway, the stairwell door obscured from the view of the main lobby, and she descended to the basement. The door at the stairwell bottom was closed and locked. She used her skeleton key to open the door, and then walked down the long, cold hallway to the opposite end.

A light shined through an open door, the angle of the light creating an orangey, projected image of the doorway on the hallway floor. She heard a bright whistle, cheeky, coming from the room — the hotel detectives' office.

She stepped into the orangey light, still in the hallway, and saw Devon Woodcomb inside the office, whistling, adjusting his tweed jacket on his shoulders, his black wool overcoat hanging from one of the pegs on the wall, his damp black fedora hanging next to it.

As Sarah stepped into the small office, she could discern standing beads of water on Devon's overcoat, not yet absorbed by the material, and she then saw a drop of water fall from the brim of his hat onto the carpeted floor, followed a moment later by another that traveled the path of the first, joining it in a puddle on the floor.

Devon turned to look at her with a final, quick roll of his wide shoulders and a tug at one sleeve, his grey tweed jacket settling into place. As always, Sarah looked at Devon Woodcomb with a mixture of friendly pleasure and puzzlement. He was a handsome man, at least as handsome as Bryce Larkin, and yet, in their several months of working together, Sarah had never found herself romantically attracted to him.

He was athletic, a former middle linebacker for the University of Illinois, so good his first two years that he had drawn comparisons to the great Chicago Bear, Dick Butkus. But a serious knee injury early in his junior year had derailed, then ended, his expectations of becoming a professional football player.

He dropped out of school in bitter disappointment. He had bounced around the city, actually working as a bouncer for a time, and as a male model, until bruises from the first job interfered with the second. Frustrated with both, he had gone back to school, this time at the University of Illinois at Chicago, and talked Casey, an Illinois football fan, into hiring him.

Devon was hoping to go to medical school eventually, and he somehow managed to go to class, work the night shift and keep up with his studies. His football player's build and his uncomplicated personal manner made the fact that he was quietly smart hard to pick up on. But the caricature served him well as a hotel detective. No one ever seemed to peg him as one, and those who knew always underestimated him.

"Hey, Sarah," he said in a soft, deep voice, "how's life above ground?"

Sarah gave him a weak smile. She had felt out of sorts since her visit to _Patel's_. Maybe the donut had been stale, although she had only had half of it…

"Hey, Devon. Nothing much going on. Morgan managed to piss off a couple of the women traveling with the Miss America contingent, but Casey smoothed it over — turns out a woman's measurements are not necessary for securing a room." Sarah shook her head and Devon mirrored her, whistling tunelessly. "Nothing for us to be worried about. Oh, and that goofy jewel thief, that Barnes character, he hasn't been back that I could see. And there are a couple of older, unaccompanied ladies — guests — showered in jewelry, so that's a surprise."

Devon chuckled. "Yeah, it is. That guy...I don't know how he manages to eat, given how hopeless he is at thievery. Stand-up comedy, maybe, or slapstick. But at least he gives us something to do when no serious criminals are haunting the Palmer House."

Sarah went to her desk and sat down gracelessly on the wooden swivel chair. She put her notebook on her desk, her fountain pen on top of it, emptying one hand. She put her coat and purse on the desk too, emptying the other. She sighed. "I guess so, but let's not wish for trouble…"

"Are you okay, Sarah? You seem a...little down. Unexpectedly cold, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah it is. And that's probably all it is. I'm just ready for the weekend."

Devon picked up a notebook from his desk and put it into the interior pocket of his jacket. He unlocked a drawer in it and took out a pistol, shoulder-holstering it beneath his tweed. He adjusted the jacket once more. Sarah gave him a nod. "It's hidden."

"Thanks. Anything else I need to know?"

Sarah reached for her notebook. She opened it to the day's page and ran her eyes down along it. Nothing of note, except she had doodled the name 'Chuck' in the top right-hand corner. She blushed, not having remembered doing it.

With a quick flip of her wrist, she shut it, glancing in Devon's direction.

"No, Devon, nothing. No one is suspicious. Everything seemed...normal."

"Okay, Sarah, guess I better get up there so Casey can go home. He'll be in a mood if I'm late again."

Sarah laughed. "He'll be in a mood either way because he is always…"

"...in a mood," Devon finished the sentence with a low chuckle. "Right. Well, enjoy the weekend. Is Holbert going to be working the day-shift tomorrow?"

"Yes, he is. He'll be here in the morning. You're going to work Saturday and Sunday night too?"

Devon nodded, his face a little weary. "I am. I need the money, and luckily, my schoolwork is going well. Courses this term are a snap." He snapped his fingers, highlighting the onomatopoeia. "Turns out my head is stronger than my knees. Or knee, anyway." Frown. "Enjoy your weekend off. Say 'Hi' to Carina for me!" He brightened for a second at that, and left the office.

Devon gone, Sarah slipped off her shoes for a moment and sighed. The low heels were not the most comfortable shoes she owned.

She picked up her notebook and opened it again. She tore the day's page out, the one with 'Chuck' in the topmost corner. She balled the page up and tossed it into the trashcan at the end of her desk. "Two points," she observed to the green-walled room.

She slipped her shoes on her feet, shaking her head in annoyance at herself, stood suddenly and put her coat on, flipping her brown ponytail out from beneath the collar. She picked up her purse, put her notebook and fountain pen in it and started from the office.

Stopping at the door, she put her hand out to turn off the light. Her hand tapped the switch for a moment, without turning the light off. She stepped slowly back to the trashcan and retrieved the balled paper.

She dropped it in her purse and turned out the light and closed the door.

* * *

Sarah could smell the spaghetti sauce before she opened the door.

Her stomach rumbled, protesting its emptiness since the half-donut much earlier in the day. She still had a sandwich wrapped in her purse but she had not felt hungry enough to eat it. But now she did feel hungry, very hungry. She turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

The smell of the spaghetti sauce intensified. Music started playing, the radio just switched on, Motown. "Sarah, is that you?"

Sarah hung her coat on a hook in the hallway and put her purse down on the glass-topped, small table beneath the coat hooks. "Hey, Carina, yes, it's me. You're home really early."

Carina's head emerged from the door to the kitchen, a few steps down the yellow hallway.

She was wearing the dramatic makeup she wore for her night job, but steam from cooking had blurred it. Her mascara was melty. "I am. I finished my shift at the automat and headed over to the Green Mill. I was about to squeeze my ass into my cocktail dress when Jack, you know, the manager, told me he'd made a mistake with the schedule. Wanda was on the schedule along with the rest of the Friday night crew, and he couldn't have us all on the clock, so he gave me the option of staying or Wanda staying."

"But that's hardly fair to you, Carina. Why didn't he send Wanda home? She's not one of the normal Friday girls, right?"

Carina blew a breath, blowing her dampening red bangs away from her forehead. She pulled her head back into the kitchen as she answered. "No, she's not. And Friday tips are, well, _Friday_ tips, but I...I was willing to give her my spot tonight. Besides, I'm almost sure Jack's sleeping with Wanda, and he probably has _an extra shift_ planned for her whenever the Mill closes down. Given how he leers at her in the cocktail dress, it's no trick to imagine how he leers at her out of it. Pig."

Sarah shook her head as she joined Carina in the small kitchenette.

A tall steel pot was steaming on one stove burner, spaghetti, and a shorter wider one was steaming beside it, the sauce. The room was an Italian sauna. Carina waved her arm over the cooking food with a flourish, stirring the steam. "Friday dinner in, for once," she paused, giving Sarah a hesitant look, "unless you have plans."

"No, no plans."

"You know, _blondie _— shit, I have a hard time calling you that since you dyed your hair, but _brownie_ does. not. scan. — you need to get out, see a man. Not every man's a creeping louse, like Larkin, or a swilling pig, like Jack. There're good men out there; I know it," Carina's bright blue eyes shaded, and her smile weakened, "but they're not easy...to find...or replace."

Sarah reached out and put a hand on Carina's shoulder. "I know, Carina. I do. We'll each find one _someday_. I'm concentrating on work right now. And you still need some time," Sarah rubbed Carina's shoulder, "no need to make a mistake, rebounding."

Carina's face scrunched and she huffed. "I hate that word, 'rebound', like it's a damn...game. Baseball. But it's no game; it's life...and it's death."

Sarah took her hand away after a brief squeeze and took a step to the stove. "Basketball, Carina. — May I drain the spaghetti for you?"

Sarah did not turn back around though she heard Carina's muffled sniffle. A moment later Carina answered, her voice heavy. "Yes, please, but keep a little of the pasta water."

* * *

Sarah finished her spaghetti and pushed the plate away, putting the last bite of garlic bread in her mouth. "That was _good_, Carina, really good. I was hungry."

"Didn't you take a sandwich, the one I made for you?"

Sarah smacked her forehead. "Oh, shit, yes, but I never ate it. It's still in my purse."

Carina was standing up, her empty plate in her hand. "I'll get it, Sarah, and throw it out. _Chicken of the Sea_, no big loss."

"Okay."

Sarah pushed her chair back from the tiny table and gazed out the small window over it. She gazed at — into — the drumly sky. That Chicago-familiar snow-feel had been in the air when she arrived at the apartment building. Now, by nascent streetlight, she could see the drizzle of the day freezing into sleet. Alchemy. She watched the winter crumbs fall for a few seconds, suspending herself in imagination among them, cold, falling, icy.

Sarah was relieved that Carina had recovered during dinner. Carina had been touch-and-go, mostly _go_, for weeks, ever since the man she had been dating — _exclusively dating_, a first for Carina — had been killed in the line of duty, shot during an attempt to stop an armed robbery. Carina had joked in a fit of dark humor that dating a policeman was dangerous, but she had not realized how true it was.

It had been three months since Doug's funeral, but Carina was still emotionally raw, tender, still depressed. She would normally never have surrendered her Friday night at the Green Mill, not without a scene (scenes had long been a Carina specialty), no matter what her manager's sleeping arrangement or who his partner.

Sarah heard the dull, metallic thump from the kitchen, the tuna sandwich discarded into the trash can, followed by the recognizable friction of Carina's old Zippo, and a moment later, Carina came out of the kitchen, trailing smoke, a cigarette in her lips, a smoothed out piece of paper in her hands. She was studying the paper.

Sarah realized what it was and froze.

"So, blondie, who's _Chuck_?"

"Give me that, Carina."

Carina smiled. She puffed her cigarette while studying Sarah. "I thought this sort of doodle was outgrown about the same time as signing high school yearbooks?"

Sarah felt a blush again. A day for blushes, despite the cold. A man for blushes. "I was just doodling, that's all."

"So," Carina said, handing the paper to Sarah and knocking the ash from her Salem into the coffee table ashtray as she sat down on the couch, "who's _Chuck_?"

Sarah knew the only easy way out was the truth. Carina would not let this go, no chance. "He's a guy I met today at _Patel's_."

Carina frowned in distaste, crushing her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. "Oh, Jesus. Lester. Is he still acting like you two are secretly engaged?"

Sarah nodded. "Of course. I may end up getting my coffee somewhere else. Hey, may I have a cigarette?"

Carina narrowed her eyes. "You don't smoke, except rarely, if we're out, drinking. Don't try to distract me, Sarah Walker. Enough Lester, more Chuck."

Sarah tried once more. "How do you know I don't want a cigarette? Maybe that Salem slogan finally won me over — 'Take a puff, it's springtime!' Maybe I want some springtime now that winter is closing in."

Carina grinned, shaking her head. "Say, you really _are_ good at this. Those CIA years weren't lost on you were they?" Carina did not wait for Sarah to answer. "So — _Chuck_?"

Sarah answered through a sigh. "He was a man who came into the diner, right after I had words with Bryce. I really barely remember..."

"Wait, Larkin was at _Patel's? _That's quite a fall from lunchtime grace. I thought he only ate at places that matched his smile: bright and meaningless. Like Alexander's."

Sarah shook her head. "I don't know why he was there, but he was. He made a crack about my hair. He hasn't seen me since I dyed it. Chuck — this other man — came in right after Bryce left."

"Pearls after swine," Carina commented, raising one eyebrow. "So what did our pearl look like? All creamy and dreamy?"

"Carina. Well. Yes, actually. He was wearing this trenchcoat, something old-fashioned about it, and he had on a beautifully tailored navy suit, dark brown Italian leather shoes. Curly-ish brown hair. Wavy. No curly. Both, neither..."

"Thank God, you barely remember him…"

Sarah's blush returned, much hotter. "Okay, so I _do_ remember him. But he was just visiting Chicago. He's from LA, I think. He's here, or was here, on business."

Carina had a funny look on her face. "Wait, — what was he wearing again?"

Sarah went through the list once more. As she did, she moved to the other end of the couch and sat down, facing Carina. When she finished the description, Carina got up without speaking. A moment later she returned, her trademark massive purse in her hand.

"There was a guy in the Green Mill today. I was leaving, after talking to Jack, and Joe Batters, you know, the Big Tuna, was in there…"

"Tony Accardo, the crime boss of the Chicago Outfit?"

"None other. You know he comes in from time to time, sits in Capone's old seat."

Sarah nodded. "Right. You've told me."

"Anyway, he was talking with this young guy, handsome, wavy hair. He was wearing a trenchcoat over a navy suit. The Big Tuna calls me over and tells me to take a Polaroid of him and his friend. I got the camera from behind the bar and took two.

"The first was blurry and I dropped it in my purse without thinking. My purse was on the floor at my feet. The second came out clear — and Accardo took it. The other guy seemed, I don't know, distracted, or something. Not happy about the picture; but that seemed to please Tony.

"I gave the picture to Accardo and left, quick as I could, glad of my street clothes. Tony, he's propositioned me before, but I've been able to get away without really answering. It's not safe to tell Accardo _no_, but it's also not safe to tell him _yes_. I've tried to hide in a lengthy _maybe._" Carina was digging in her purse as she spoke. She sat back down on the couch, still digging like a prospector.

"It can't be the same guy, Carina. Chuck. That would be too..._weird_. — And you need to find someplace else to work, Carina, a non-mobster nightclub. Accardo's a killer who runs other killers."

Carina stopped searching and gave Sarah a flat look. "A non-mobster nightclub? Is there one of those in Chicago in 1965, one the Outfit doesn't own, or some rival group?"

"Maybe you could move up at the automat, get that manager's position, a leg up?"

"I'd never make me the folding money my long legs make me in that tiny cocktail skirt. Every time I bend over, I hear a cash register." She made a _cha-ching _sound, money or victory, her arm emerging from deep in her large purse. "Oh, here it is! Look." Carina leaned forward and handed Sarah the Polaroid.

Sarah looked. The face of the younger man was blurry, indistinct. Accardo's face was clear enough to be recognizable. It was as if the younger man had turned his head just as the picture was taken. But the trenchcoat, the suit — they did look familiar.

"Huh. The clothes do look a lot like what he...Chuck...was wearing, but still...I just can't believe that's him." She put the photo on the coffee table, next to the ashtray. "It can't be him. Did he say anything, did you hear what they were talking about?"

"No, nothing, not really. But the guy was writing something or signing something when Tony waved me over. In fact, he...Chuck or whoever it was...was using one of those pens like your grandma's, the teal fountain pen, the Parker?"

Sarah felt the tingle again, the trouble tingle. _Maybe it had been Chuck?_ _He had a meeting with a mob boss?_

"And you're sure you did not hear _anything_ they were talking about?"

Carina looked at Sarah, her eyes out of focus for a second, thinking. "Just that they were talking about a woman. 'She' I heard Accardo say as I came up. But I never heard a name, just 'she'. Do you think it was your pearl, Chuck, there with the Accardo, the Big Tuna, and little ol' me, Chicken of the Sea?" Carina batted her eyelashes, deliberately Bryce-like.

Sarah shook her head and laughed — but nervously. "I can't say for sure, but I doubt it." She got up and went to look back out the window, at the still-falling sleet.

* * *

Since Bryce, she'd sworn off dating, except for the one double-date she had gone on with Carina. She'd only done it to try to help Carina out, and she'd set Carina up with Devon.

Devon had liked Carina, and Carina had liked Devon, but her loss was too much with her to allow anything to develop. Devon was still interested but Sarah wasn't sure that Carina was or ever would be.

They had double-dated with Devon's younger brother, Kevin. Sarah had enjoyed the dinner and the show, but she had been no more romantically interested in the younger Woodcomb than the older.

* * *

The phone was ringing. In her dream. A dream of donuts, halved, and _Patel's. _A trench coat beneath a sunny smile.

The phone was ringing. In the hallway. Sarah sat up and got out of bed. She picked up the phone, hoping the ringing had not awoken the neighbors.

"Hello?"

"Sarah? It's Devon. Sorry to call you in the wee hours. But we have a situation here. A guest has been murdered in one of the rooms. Room 564. A bloody mess. Execution. Maybe you should come. Um, well, actually, Casey _wants_ you to come."

Sarah shook her head, trying to dispel the soft-focused warm dream and reinhabit the hard-edged cold reality. "_Murder_? Casey's already there?"

"No, but he's on his way. Should be here in a few minutes."

"Okay, Devon. I'll get dressed and…"

"Casey said to take a cab if you can find one. He'll reimburse you. He wants to handle this right, keep it as quiet as we can."

Sarah realized that Devon sounded slightly panicked. The first time the job involved violence, blood. Sarah regretted her own unbidden memory of dinner's marinara sauce. "Tell Casey I'm on my way."

* * *

A/N: Still assembling our cast of characters. Getting the story rolling. Thoughts?

I _believe_ I will go on with this, although I am really busy. We'll see.


	3. Fifth Floor, Strange Sins

A/N: Yet more Hotel Detective. The story here is woven around real places and real events but I have changed and shifted things as I wanted so as to fit the story I plan to tell.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Three: Fifth Floor, Strange Sins

* * *

Sarah rubbed the taxi window with the bottom of her fist, creating a peep-hole in the interior fog. The cab's heater was barely working and the driver kept wiping away fog on the inside of the windshield. He was hunched over the wheel, intent on his driving, peering out, as if his vision were chasing down the light cast by the cab's headlights.

Snow was now falling, accumulating fast. Drizzle had transmuted into sleet had transmuted into snow. And the snow seemed to mute the city, to blanket Chicago in white silence. Sarah stared out the peep-hole, looking at but not seeing the city as the taxi sledded through it.

She kept trying not to think about Chuck, the strange effect meeting him had on her. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them, and forced her mind in another direction. Work. Being a hotel detective. She needed to think about work.

* * *

Sarah had been working at the Palmer House for six months, more or less. She had lucked into the knowledge of the job. She had stopped in _Patel's_ for the first time during a walk in the city. Unemployed, she had taken to walking and looking for _Help Wanted _signs. That particular day had not been promising. Lots of steps, no signs. She had ducked into the diner to escape a rain shower. It was lunchtime and Sarah was hungry, so she ordered a bowl of chili, advertised in the window as the diner's specialty. It had been good, if cumin-heavy, but she had really enjoyed the coffee she had afterward.

The rain had driven many folks to shelter, as it had Sarah, and the diner was teeming with people, talk, laughter, smoke. A man came in, tall, heavily built, wearing a wet, dark-grey suit, hat in hand. Sarah knew him as ex-military at one glance, a Marine, she added as an educated guess. Her time with her father and then in the CIA had made her quick to recognize types, even if she could not always say how she knew.

Her booth was the only one with an empty seat and she saw the man see it and walk toward her. "Hello, Miss. I'm John Casey. May I share your table?"

She nodded, amused by his stiff formality. "Sure, have a seat. Dry off. I'm Sarah." He sat down, hanging his hat on the pole that extended up from the edge of the booth, its end bristling with two coat hooks. He sat down, grimacing.

He reached up with his right hand to rub his left shoulder. "Rain. Always gets me."

Sarah gave him a sympathetic smile. "Old bullet wound?"

He gave her a look of surprise and question. "Um, yes, as a matter of fact. The Chosin Reservoir Campaign — Korea. Shot busted up my shoulder." He picked up a menu but looked at her empty bowl. "How's the chili? I normally bring my lunch — or, rather, my wife makes my lunch and makes me take it. Says that I need proper nutrition."

Sarah laughed. "Well, I won't say it's proper nutrition, and I won't say it's the best chili in town, but I will say it tasted good on this rainy day."

Casey nodded at her. "That guy at the counter. He keeps staring at you. He seemed unhappy when I sat down. Are you two…"

"Oh, God, no. That's Lester. Or that's what he told me his name was when he brought me my chili. I thought he'd never leave."

Casey gave her a long look. "Well, I can see why he stayed if you don't mind me saying. You are a beautiful woman."

The line came out as an appreciation of fact, not as _a line_, but Sarah gave it — him — a twist. "How'd your lunch-maker feel if she knew you said that?"

To Sarah's surprise, Casey grinned without self-consciousness. "If she were here, she'd agree. She knows I have one and only one lunch-maker and she's it, the one and only. Ilsa is her name, by the way. But how could she take my compliments seriously if she thought I couldn't recognize beauty when I see it?"

And just like that, Sarah felt awkward and self-conscious. She was struggling for a response when he went on. "How'd you guess, about my wound?"

Sarah looked at him. She had told almost no one about her CIA work. Carina, her roommate, knew a little, and she knew more than anyone else. Bryce knew because of her resume, but he did not know her exact job description. He had taken her to be a secretary at Langley and she had not corrected him.

Sarah sidestepped Casey's question. "Chosin Resevoir. Marine?"

Casey nodded as he smiled. "Spook?"

Sarah's mouth fell open, her spook training failing her.

Casey smirked at her. "Don't be shocked, Sarah Spook. I spent some time at…" — he glanced around — "Camp Peary as a weapons instructor years ago. Got to know the...product. Although I didn't really know until you asked about my shoulder. But your choice of the booth, your attention to the door, to the whole diner, to me when I came in, the way you sit, uncoiled but coiled, relaxed anticipation, it all just..._added up_." He smiled.

"And of course, your non-denial is the clincher. Although, it also, strangely, causes me some doubt, since a spook's lying would be well-oiled, automatic. So, maybe the clincher is actually proof that I am _wrong_?"

The intelligent gleam in his eyes revealed to Sarah that he was giving her a way out, a chance to deny, now, if she wanted.

But she wasn't CIA anymore, and it felt...comfortable to be sitting there with someone who knew, and who knew something about it, the Farm, her earlier life. — Sitting there, the rain falling outside, people running by with umbrellas up, newspapers over their heads, seeking shelter.

Sarah mimicked Casey's glance around, partly for real, partly for fun. "You're right. And you're wrong. I was...a spook. But I...crossed the Styx...back to the land of the living."

"You quit? Charon — Joad — let you go?"

"Do you know the Director?"

Casey pursed his lips, distaste, and nodded once. "He wasn't the Director when I knew him, but he was already a horse's ass."

Sarah suppressed a giggle. "You do know him. Yes, he let me go, but he wasn't happy about it, and he…"

"...He threatened you?"

"Yeah, he did. Vague, but he made it sound like...anything...something...might happen to me if I left."

"Old trick. Keep you in by convincing you that there's no way out. Good for you for walking. That took some sand, true grit."

"Thanks. But now I'm finding that he was — sort of — right. It's been hard, a hard adjustment. On this shore of the Styx. I have skills but they aren't exactly marketable, and saying much about them tends to make folks afraid of me, not interested in hiring me. But I can't just do...women's jobs…" Sarah pursed her lips, distaste for the term, "...you know, be a secretary or something."

Casey gave her a long, appraising look, and seemed to be indulging in an interior dialogue. After a moment, he spoke. "Look, I manage the Palmer House…"

"The hotel?"

"Yes. We need a hotel detective and a woman would be an interesting choice. Your skills would make you a real asset, but…"

"But what?"

"But your assets are not assets."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "You mean _what, _exactly?"

"You are lovely, like I said. That blond hair is a beacon, those blue eyes too. And your clothes. Nothing wrong with them, but they, that figure, ...attract the eye."

"So I'm..._overqualified_...for the job?" Sarah felt herself growing annoyed.

Casey waved his hands defensively. "Look, Miss Sarah, I'm not trying to be...well, I'm not trying to annoy you, but if you are interested in working for me, you'd need to bring me a resume, a real one, unexpurgated, and you'd have to be willing to...turn the lights down, so to speak. _Tone it down_."

Sarah gave him an annoyed huff. "I was a _spy _looking like this."

"And no doubt Joad used you in ways that capitalized on your...overqualifications…"

"What's that mean, Casey?" Sarah's voice was a whisper and a growl. "I was Joad's agent, not his prostitute."

Casey waved his hands again, more urgently. "That's not what I meant, Sarah. God, no. I just meant that he found a way to use your looks to mission-advantage…"

Sarah could not deny that much, so she just shrugged. Casey went on. "A hotel detective has to be...anonymous...has to fade into the decor, be indistinguishable from the lobby lice…"

"Lobby lice?"

"Loungers. Loafers. Larrikins. The sort of people who spend their time loitering around expensive hotels, hoping to latch onto someone or something."

"You sound like Raymond Chandler," Sarah said, laughing softly. "Larrikins?"

Casey smiled. "You a Chandler fan too?"

"No, actually I've never read a page. But my roommate loves him, and now and then she insists on reading passages to me, so I have a sense of it, a few phrases. Maybe one day I'll read one of his novels. He's not Dickens, but he can write."

"He sure can. You interested in the job?"

"Lassoing the lobby lice?"

Casey nodded, chuckled. "Yes, and are you willing to tone it down?"

Sarah sat back and sighed, turning to the window. It was still raining, umbrellas, newspapers, black-wet pavement. Buses splashing puddles.

Lester finally came to the table to take Casey's order.

* * *

The taxi came to a stop at the main entrance of the Palmer House. The entrance's host of bright lights yellowed the snow, not an entirely welcome effect. Sarah got out and paid the driver, who took her money, tore off a blank receipt from a booklet, and then wiped the windshield again. A police car was parked off to the side, empty. There was another car behind it, unmarked, but Sarah's gut told her it was government-issued.

She pulled her coat around her, glad of her scarf, and walked quickly inside. The night manager, Robert, was behind the desk. He looked pale and harried. He nodded subtly to Sarah and she nodded back. The lobby was empty, except for one older man seated in an armchair off to the side. His face was buried in a paperback, Chandler's _Playback_. In another situation, Sarah might have smiled at the coincidence, but she did not. She got on the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor.

* * *

Casey had hired Devon shortly before he hired Sarah. The two previous detectives turned out to have been part of a scheme to rob guests, victimizing the very guests they were supposed to be protecting. They had both been ex-cops, and maybe their misbehavior had been partly responsible for Casey hiring Devon and Sarah. She knew part of it was that Casey had been a fan of Devon's and felt bad about his injury — and identified with it too. She and Devon had been a good team so far, foiling a couple of sophisticated robbery attempts and keeping petty thieves like Jeff Barnes at bay. Sarah had been very good at spotting pickpockets, and the word was out that the Palmer House was not a safe place to put your hand in someone else's pocket.

Sarah liked the work, even if it did not offer the life-and-death adrenaline rush that spying sometimes did. But she did not miss that. Casey was a good man, and a good man to work for, even if he was incapable of being calm, easy. He ran the Palmer House like a military camp, and it showed. The guests loved the place and it was held up often as an example of what a hotel could and should be. Sarah took pride in having a quiet role in that reputation.

* * *

The elevator doors opened and Sarah got off on the fifth floor. As she approached Room 564, the odor of blood and death reached her, an odor she wished never to smell again. The door was closed, but she could hear voices. She knocked.

Devon opened the door. The odor became stronger, cloying. Devon was paler than Robert. He did not say anything, he just stepped aside so Sarah could enter the room. It was crowded and too warm.

Casey was there. Next to him were two uniformed policemen, notebooks in hand. Next to them was a dark-haired woman, about Sarah's age, wearing a blue woman's suit. Beside her was a portly man, middle-aged, squeezed into a black suit that might have fit him fifteen pounds ago. At their feet was a corpse. A woman. There was a neat red hole in her forehead, like a small, stray Twister dot, and a red Rorschach test on the floor beneath her blond hair. Sarah took in the scene before anyone spoke.

Devon was right. It had been an execution.

The woman had been on the floor when she was executed. There were powder burns on her face. Her eyes, an eerie green, were open, staring heavenward. Sarah thought of a line of Chandler's that Carina once read her. _She had eyes like strange sins. _And so she did, the dead, staring woman on the floor, the woman with open, green, unseeing and heavenward eyes.

The dark-haired woman looked from the body to Sarah. "And you are?"

"I'm Sarah Walker, hotel detective. And you are?"

"Zondra Rizzo, FBI, Organized Crime Unit."

Sarah blinked at the name, a wisp of memory, but then lost it. "And who is..._was_...she?"

"Maria Tomek. She was a dancer in Vegas. A plaything for the heavyweights in the Chicago Outfit. She had been under government protection in LA, in hiding, a state witness, but she ran for some reason. Ran here. — Until she couldn't run anymore."

"Do you know who might have done this?"

"In a general way, yes. But specifically, no. Your partner here, Devon, is it?" Devon nodded. "He's been questioning the staff. We'll talk to guests in the morning. But so far, we haven't got much. One of the maids said she saw a man duck into the stairway at the end of the hall, a tall man in a trench coat, but he had a hat on, pulled down, and she did not get a look at his face. The style of execution has a lot in common with The Clown's…"

Sarah felt her stomach tighten; she had never liked clowns. "The Clown? — Oh, you mean Joseph Lombardo?"

Zondra made a face. "That's the monster. But he's not supposed to be in town right now, so…" Zondra shrugged. "Maybe he has an apprentice. A junior clown."

Sarah was trying hard not to think about the maid's description, about Chuck. "How did she become a state witness?"

"She was Manny Sklar's off-and-on girl. Met him some years back when she danced at the Saraha Inn, Sklar's big hotel. Sklar had been a state's witness too, but he got hit back in the beginning of September. The first of September, in fact. I assume you saw the papers?"

"Yes, I did. So, she knew what Sklar knew?"

"We think so. They had records, proof of the Outfit's crimes, hidden somewhere, and we were waiting for them to turn them over; they were trying to get us to sweeten the deal. Guess we'll never find the records now." Zondra's eyes burned with anger, frustration. She glared for a moment at the dead woman.

"How can I help?"

"Can you talk to the staff again? The maids especially might be willing to tell you things they wouldn't tell a man, Devon," Zondra glanced at Devon and then back to Sarah. "We'll talk to the guests ourselves." She gestured to herself and the man in the tight black suit. "This is George, George Lakoff. So far, no one from the papers has shown up. We can't keep it out of them, but maybe if you go behind us and talk to the guests, offer them something complimentary, we can keep them from talking?"

"We can do that. Devon, are you up for it, staying for a few more hours?" Sarah faced him.

Devon glanced at Zondra and straightened up. "Sure, I can do that." He seemed to be getting his color back.

Sarah looked at them both. "Which maid saw the man?"

Devon answered. "It was Louisa, Louisa Murdoch. She's still here, down in the housekeeper's room, if you want to talk to her. I have and so has...um, Agent Rizzo here."

Sarah shrugged, trying to control the dread that was climbing up her back, a slow, deliberate, ascending spider. "I will talk to her. She and I know each other. Maybe, as Agent Rizzo said, she'll tell me something more, remember something else."

Sarah felt Casey's hand on her arm. "Let's talk before you see Louisa."

Sarah followed him out of the room. He looked tired, his suit lacked its normal military precision, its razor-sharp creases. "I want you to investigate this, Sarah. Like it's a mission, your mission. I have no doubt Rizzo and Lakoff are good agents, but I want a hand in this too. It matters to the Palmer House, and to Mr. Hilton. I've already spoken to him...He agrees with me. So, make this a priority. Dig into it. See if you can find anything that the FBI agents, or the cops, miss. The mob should know better than doing...business here. I'm betting on you, Sarah Spook."

Sarah frowned. "Don't call me that, Casey. And I don't know what I can do the FBI or the police can't."

"I don't either," Casey gave her a tight grin, "but I know I hired you for a reason. You've got something like second-sight, some kind of radar. As I said, I'm betting on you."

Sarah tried not to think about the phrases, 'second-sight', 'radar', tried not to let herself feel the tingle that had returned when Zondra retold Louisa's description of the trench-coated man.

She nodded silently at Casey and got back on the elevator. She pushed the button for the lobby. She wanted to ask Robert a question before she talked to Louisa.

Sarah was lost in thought as she got off the elevator and walked toward the front desk, her head down. She heard her name. "Sarah Walker! Fancy meeting you here!"

She looked up to see Chuck Bartowski, pen in hand, signing the guestbook. "Chuck?"

She could not ignore it: she was tingling all over, every nerve twinkling.

Chuck had on a brown overcoat, not a trench coat, and he had a sweater and jeans on beneath it. He had a knit cap on his head and a large suitcase on the floor beside him. He was smiling at her, a genuine smile, but she could see that it was mixed with something...something else. She was not sure what.

"Are you staying here too?"

Sarah gave Robert a quick glance. "No, Chuck. I work here. I'm part of the housekeeping staff. Right, Robert?"

Robert hesitated a second, but Sarah was sure Chuck did not notice. He was looking at her. "Right, right, Miss Walker. Housekeeping."

"Well, I just checked in." Chuck looked up at the murals on the ceiling as if he were a disciple at the Transfiguration. "Some place, this…" He put down the pen.

"Checking in? At this hour?"

"Yeah, the hotel I was in turned out to be...what did you call it, Robert?"

"_A Hot-Pillow House_."

"That means a hotel where they rent rooms by the hour…" Chuck whispered, leaning toward Sarah. "And the room next to mine was...busy...hour by hour." He leaned back and gave her an embarrassed grin. "Sorry, I guess that was...indelicate."

"It's okay, Chuck. I work in a hotel. I know the..._slang_." She was so happy to see him there she felt like grabbing him and hugging him; she was so unhappy to see him there that she wanted to turn and run.

"So, _housekeeping_?" His tone was slightly incredulous, and she could see him looking at her with puzzlement.

"Yes, and I have work to do...after I change. Maybe I will see you around, but keep in mind, the hotel isn't big on employees...interacting...with guests, except professionally."

Chuck's glance dimmed a bit. "Maybe we could get coffee...again?"

"Maybe," Sarah said, keeping her voice pleasant but non-committal. "Are you all checked in?"

"I am. I guess I should get to my room, try to get a little sleep. It was great to see you again, Sarah Walker."

"Enjoy your stay, Chuck Bartowski."

He looked at her much as he had before he left _Patel's, _then he turned and lugged his suitcase to the elevator. It seemed heavy, even given its size.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

These first three chapters have been an extended prologue. The first arc of the story begins in earnest in Chapter Four.


	4. The Simple Art of Murder?

A/N: More Hotel Detective. Chapters will begin to become longer now that we are done with the prologue chapters.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Four: The Simple Art of Murder?

* * *

Saturday, November 6, 1965

* * *

When the elevator doors closed on Chuck, Sarah's tingle subsided.

She turned back to Robert at the front desk. He had taken a briar pipe from one of his pin-striped vest's pockets — Robert was the kind of dandy who would have worn a monocle or pince-nez if Casey would have tolerated that degree of affectation — and he lit it, blowing out quick puffs of blue-gray smoke, drawing the match's flame into the bowl. He glanced at Sarah above the burning match, his glasses magnifying his eyes, making them two sizes too large for his bald head.

"Housekeeping?" He waved his hand quickly, extinguishing the match.

Sarah gave him a look. "And where's the bellboy? Why did a guest have to heft his own suitcase?"

Robert puffed on his pipe before answering, running one hand along his short goatee, then pulled his pocket watch from his other vest pocket by a heavy gold chain. "I sent the bellboy, Andy, upstairs a while ago. I got word about a possible corridor creep, that Barnes character you keep chasing out of here, on one of the top floors.

"A woman called and said she saw a man trying doors. I sent Andy up to check since you and Devon were — otherwise detained. I expected him back a while ago."

"Which floor?"

"Twentieth."

"Okay — I'm going to run up there and see what's going on. Pass the word among the staff that I am going to be under a flag until further notice, playing a maid."

Robert gazed at her with his magnified eyes, sucking thoughtfully on his pipe. "You've met Mr.…" he looked at the guestbook, giving Sarah the time to supply the name, but she did not, "..._Bartowski _before, I take it. You didn't care for him?" He raised one eyebrow slowly.

Sarah glanced away from Robert and toward the shut elevator doors. She was unsure why Chuck kept affecting her as he did. _So strong._ Her tingle had always been...reliable — a Geiger counter of approaching trouble — and perhaps Chuck _was_ trouble. Certainly, circumstantial evidence accumulating through the day and night, like the snow outside, suggested that he was trouble. Or maybe it suggested that he was _in_ trouble.

Or maybe she was the one in trouble.

She turned back to Robert, as if only then hearing him. "No. I mean, yes. I...I mean he seemed, seems like a nice guy."

"So, why go under the flag, lie to him? It's not against the rules for certain guests to know who you are, and I hardly think that young man is likely to run afoul of our house detectives…" He puffed again on his pipe.

Sarah focused on the sandblasted briar. "You should put that pipe out. If Casey sees…He'll certainly smell it."

Robert widened his already lens-swollen eyes so that for a moment they seemed as if they had escaped from their sockets. "I know. I know. But my nerves, my nerves. Such a night…"

"Say," Sarah said, glad she had shifted the topic, "who found…" — she lowered her voice although the only person in the cavernous lobby was the elderly Chandler reader, seated in the distance and still entombed in _Playback_ — "who found the body?"

"Louisa did. Not her lucky night. I fear she's still rattled by it and the interrogations."

"And who called the police?"

"I did. I got the call from Louisa and immediately phoned." Blue smoke rose in quick puffs as Robert relived the stressful moment.

Sarah was puzzled. "The police got here fast?"

"Yes, they did. A patrol car in the area."

"And the FBI?"

"They arrived a few moments after the police."

"Huh. Okay. Well, I'll go check on Andy, then I'm going to talk to Louisa. Remember, I'm under a flag. I will grab a spare maid's uniform after I talk to Lousia."

Robert took a pipe cleaner out if his jacket pocket and ran into the mouthpiece of his pipe, moved it in and out. The movement seemed to calm him.

He looked up at Sarah. "I'll make a note of it and pass the word around, Sarah."

"Thanks, Robert."

He gave her his trademark half-bow.

She started toward the elevator but heard Robert clear his throat. "I've never seen you react to a guest as you did to Mr. Bartowski. That look when he spoke to you. That must have been some coffee you two shared. His room number is 843...by the way."

She glared back over her shoulder without stopping, but Robert was deliberately not looking at her. He was knocking his pipe's dottle into an ashtray.

Sarah got on the elevator and punched the button for the twentieth floor. She really did not need to know Chuck's room number.

As the elevator climbed, she tried to piece it all together. She met Chuck at _Patel's _late Friday morning. He was — assuming he told her the truth — on his way to a meeting. But what meeting? When? Later Friday, a man who might have been Chuck met with Tony Accardo at _The Green Mill. _Sometime still later on Friday, late, a man who might have been Chuck was seen exiting the floor on which Maria Tomek was murdered. And then, a bit before dawn on Saturday, he shows up at the Palmer House and checks in. _Room 843_. Looking adorable in the sweater and jeans. _And in Room 843_.

The elevator passed the eight floor — _Room 843_ — on its way to the twentieth, and Sarah forced her thoughts to the murder, the scene of it.

There was no sign of forced entry into Maria Tomek's room. No sign of a struggle inside. Either someone had a key and surprised her, or she opened the door to her executioner.

Maria had been wearing a fancy dress, green sequins, green silk high heels, jade jewelry, dressed for a green-on-green-on-green night out.

But that was odd: she was on the run, hunted, presumably, not just by the FBI but also by the Outfit. A night out? Where would she have been going?

Or, was she dressed to entertain in her room? But who would she dress up for _like that_? Sarah would have to talk to the FBI agent, Rizzo, and find out more. But that could wait until after the talk with Louisa.

The elevator doors slid opened quietly and Sarah got out on the twentieth floor. She looked left, down the long hallway, the walls decorated with photos of famous Palmer House guests or performers, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She looked right and saw the bellboy, Andy, on the floor.

He was not moving. His bellboy cap was on the ground next to him.

Sarah rushed to him. He was prone on the floor, face-down. She put her hand on his neck, relieved to find warmth there, and a pulse. She checked him quickly, and seeing no injury, rolled him over. He blinked just after she did, slowly becoming conscious.

"Hey...hey...where am I? Miss Walker?"

"Hey, Andy, it's me. Are you okay?"

He nodded and sat up, rubbing his neck. As he did, Sarah caught sight of a dart that had been beneath him. She picked it up, recognizing it. A tranq dart.

_A tranq dart in the Palmer House bellboy? _Tingle.

Andy, still rubbing his neck, looked at the dart too. "Jeff Barnes shot me. I thought he killed me, but he just shot me with a dart?"

Sarah looked at Andy, his eyes. "Not just a dart, a drugged dart. It put you to sleep. How do you feel?"

He ran his hand up from his neck to the top of his red-curled head. "Loggy. Fuzzy. A little sick at my stomach. But, really, okay, I guess." He smiled and it made his freckles seem mobile.

Sarah helped Andy to stand. He was shaky but he stood on his own feet once he was up.

"So, what happened?" Sarah picked up his hat and handed it to him.

Andy looked toward the elevator as he put his hat back on, stretching the chin strap beneath and around his round cheeks. "I got off the elevator and started down the hallway. When I got here, I saw Barnes backing out of a room — that one, Room 2022, carrying a bag. I told him to stop; he turned and shot me."

"You're _sure_ it was Barnes?"

"Yes, I've seen the photos you and Mr. Woodcomb posted in the main office. It was him, no doubt. Unless he's got a twin. He's sorta looks soft and runny, you know, but I recognized him."

"What the hell would Jeff Barnes be doing with a tranq gun?" Sarah asked herself aloud. "That's...out of his league. He's strictly small-time, no guns, no brains." She looked a the dart again, more closely. "These are military-grade, expensive. You don't buy these at the five-and-dime." She shook her head. "It makes no sense."

Andy shrugged, unable to answer her questions, and rubbed his neck, looking sheepish.

"Take this downstairs." Andy took the dart with pincher-fingers, like he might a dead insect with a still-live stinger. "Give it to Robert. Tell him I said to put it in an envelope and hold it for me. You're sure you're okay?"

Andy nodded. He started to turn.

"Wait for a second, Andy. Who called about seeing Barnes?"

"A woman in 2024. Mrs. James."

"And who is in 2022?"

"That's the weird thing. I don't think anyone is in there. That room has been under repair since...the rock band incident."

Sarah nodded, remembering. Somehow, the band had managed to get copious amounts of urine and feces on the ceiling of the room, as well as everywhere else in it. The room had been a total loss and closed for a while, but that was not the kind of thing the house detectives normally tracked; their concern was with the guests of the Palmer House, not with the building itself, the physical plant.

"Right. Thanks, Andy. Tell Robert to make you a coffee and give you some aspirin. You're shift's over soon, right?" Sarah looked at her watch. Thirty-two minutes past five.

"At six, yeah. Thanks, Miss Walker." He started to the elevator.

Sarah got out her skeleton key from her pocket and entered 2022.

She stood in the dark for a moment, collecting herself. As her eyes adjusted, she could see from the window that the black outside was graying, daylight encroaching on the city. She gave herself a small shake.

She had hidden the reaction from Andy, but the dart had shocked her, upset her. It was not just military-grade, expensive, it was a CIA standard-issue. She had used such darts many times, in varying strengths, and for various purposes. _How the hell did Jeff Barnes come by such a thing?_

She clicked on the overhead light. The room smelled strongly of fresh paint. Clothes covered the furniture, protecting it from the painting. The room looked otherwise much as Sarah would have expected. She walked through it, seeing nothing surprising. She looked in the bathroom. Nothing. She walked out of it and stood beside the bed, looking around slowly. Then she noticed it. The door of the room safe, visible in the open closet, was ajar.

Sarah stepped to it and opened it. The safe was empty. After one last long look around, she turned off the light and left the room. She needed to talk to Louisa. And although she was not delaying that talk on purpose, a part of her was in no hurry to have it.

* * *

Louisa was sitting on a metal foldout chair in the housekeeper's room, the third floor. Her face was down, her head in her hands, her elbows propped on the table in front of her.

The room was large. On one end was a wall of lockers, on the other a huddled mass of stocked and unstocked housekeeping carts.

Lousia looked up as Sarah came in and managed a weak smile. Her light blue maid's uniform was badly wrinkled and there was a bloodstain on the front of it, and Sarah could see a telltale brown stain on Louisa's left hand. Louisa followed Sarah's eyes to it and dropped the hand beneath the table in front of her.

"Hey, Sarah. So, they brought you in for this mess?" Louisa's dark eyes looked puffy beneath her wispy brown curls. She was somewhere between Sarah and Casey in age.

Sarah sat down in a foldout chair next to Maria before answering. "Yes, they did. Casey asked me to talk to you, go over everything again. I'm sorry about that, but it needs to be done, for the hotel's sake."

Louisa gave Sarah a resigned nod. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Just start at the beginning. You were cleaning vacant rooms on the fifth floor…"

"Yes, and restocking supplies, checking clocks and appliances. I was a few doors down from...her room. I came out of the room I was working in and got a glimpse of a man heading into the stairwell."

"Did he seem to be hurrying, in a hurry? Could you hear his steps after he went into the stairwell?"

Louisa pursed her lips. "No, not really, now that you ask. It didn't seem like he was hurrying. And, yes, I heard his steps on the stairs, the first few, and he wasn't running...Does that mean it wasn't him?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, but it tells us something about him if it was him. No panic. But of course, it might have just been a guest. Do you recall, are there any men staying on the fifth floor?"

"I don't recall, Sarah. So many rooms, so many nights. I see the names on my check-off sheet but they are just names. I can get the sheet." Louisa pushed the metal chair back and it made a screeching sound on the tile floor.

"No, Louisa. Casey will have a Xerox. Just sit still." She put a gentle hand on Louisa's shoulder. "Do you recall anything else about the man? Say, the color of his pants?"

"Blue, maybe, or black. The color of the Bears' uniforms, maybe? I can't be sure."

"What about the trench coat? Did it have a belt? Was it buttoned, unbuttoned?"

"It was unbuttoned, I think. It had a belt but it wasn't belted. I saw the buckle of the belt hanging...yeah, I did."

"Good. And the color of the trench coat?"

Louisa shrugged. "I don't know. Trench coat color. Tan, I guess."

"Gloves?"

"I don't remember. His arms were extended, pushing open the door. I'm not sure I even saw his hands."

"Okay, enough of that for now. So, take me through finding her. The body."

Louisa paled. "I saw the man leave. I finished the room I was working on and started toward the next vacant one. That's when I saw her door, open, just a crack. I knocked and there was no answer. I pushed the door open and called out, knocking again, identifying myself as housekeeping. There was still no answer.

"So, I pushed the door all the way open, and then I saw her, all gowned and beautiful and so dead. That hole…" Louisa shuddered and Sarah did too, recalling Maria's face. "I ran to her and got down beside her. I touched her hair. It was bloody. I wiped my hand on my uniform." She took her hand out from beneath the table, displaying the brown stain. "I guess I need to wash my hand."

"Was the body cold?"

Louisa nodded. "It wasn't warm, that's all I can say."

"You didn't disturb the scene in any other way. Pick anything up? Move anything?"

Louisa shook her head. "You know me, Sarah. I'm no dummy. I wouldn't have touched her but it seemed the Christian thing to do, to see if she was still alive." Louisa crossed herself.

"It was. Don't worry about that, Louisa. I'm sure that you'll be able to go home soon. If you think of anything else, let me know, okay?"

"I will, Sarah. Who could do that? Just shoot someone like that, point-blank, in the head? A woman, looking at you as you pulled the trigger? And why didn't she scream, cry out?"

"I don't know, Louisa."

"Pardon my French, but this is one fucked-up world," Louisa said, crossing herself yet again.

"Yeah, Louisa, it is." Sarah got up and grabbed a maid's uniform in her size off a rack next to the lockers, and a pair of shoes from a stack of boxes by the rack.

* * *

Sarah got off the elevator in the basement. Other than some cash, her ID and her key ring, she had left everything at home. She wanted to make some notes while the conversations with Louisa and Andy were fresh in her mind. She had extra notebooks in her office desk.

When she got to the office, the door was open. Holbert Lozier was there, sitting at her desk, his feet on it, gritty snow melting into a puddle on top of it. He saw Sarah and jumped, moving his feet immediately and pushing the dirty water off the desk with his hand, managing mainly to smear it across the top.

"Oh, hey, Sarah! What are you doing here? I just arrived. Waiting for Devon to come down so I can relieve him. Why's he late?"

Holbert was the part-time house detective who covered the hours when neither Sarah nor Devon was working. He was a small man who always looked like he had slept in whatever he was wearing. He habitually wore the expression of a man who had just lost at Tic-Tac-Toe to a small child. In fact, the rest of the hotel staff called him Holbert _Loser_.

He had been a beat cop who never advanced and who undoubtedly had spent most of his uniformed time intimidating smaller men, harassing attractive women, and yelling "Move along!" at harmless, milling crowds. Sarah had no idea why Casey had hired him since it was hard to imagine anyone feeling sympathy for Holbert. His employment remained one of the Palmer House's darkest mysteries, wholly beyond even Sarah's ken.

She took a deep breath and gave Holbert a quick rundown of events, the murder of Maria Tomek and the Barnes attack on Andy. Holbert looked like he regretted showing up for work. He stood and stared at her.

Finished, Sarah moved to her desk, forcing Holbert to step away from it. After draping the maid's uniform on the back of her chair, and putting the shoes on the ground, she unlocked the top drawer and grabbed a notebook. From a Kleenex box on the desk, she grabbed a tissue and dabbed the dirty water off her desk's top. Holbert muttered a _Sorry _from behind her but Sarah just sat down, opened the notebook, and started writing.

Devon entered the room. "Hey, Holbert. Sorry to get down here late. Has Sarah…?"

"I've told him," Sarah said, glancing up at Devon. "Anything new?"

"No, the forensic team is working and the ambulance arrived. Casey's talking to the press. The vultures were slow to gather, but they've gathered in numbers."

"Well, I have some news." Sarah told Devon about Andy and Jeff Barnes. Devon sat down heavily at his desk when she finished, wearing a look of disbelief. "Jeff Barnes with a...weapon? I mean, other than his sardine-baited breath? A tranq gun? That's like...I don't know...Otis Campbell with a machine gun."

Holbert spoke up, a question. "Otis Campbell?" Sarah turned to look at Holbert.

She heard Devon sigh. It was telling that Devon had little patience for Holbert. "You know, Holbert, on _Andy Griffith_. The chubby, hen-pecked drunk who lets himself into and out of his cell."

The word 'hen-pecked' seemed to affect Holbert, although Sarah was not sure he was any more aware of who Otis Campbell was than she. She turned back to Devon. "I wonder if we'll see Barnes in here again? That was an...escalation. He's got to know that. Andy — our Andy, not Andy Griffith — is a sweet, harmless kid."

"He is," Devon said categorically, punctuating his sentence with a single nod. "Barnes screwed the pooch this time. I suspect we'll never see him again. Not if he knows what's good for him. But that irks me. I wonder what he had in the bag?"

"Don't know. And it's strange that it happens on the same night as the murder of Maria Tomek. But maybe it's just coincidence. Everything that happens has to happen some time."

"With Barnes, who knows?" Devon blew out a breath. "A tranq gun? _Really_?"

"The dart's upstairs with Robert. I'm going to go and get it in a minute. Are you heading home?"

"Yeah, I'm done in. That FBI woman, Rizzo, she's...something, something. It was like being in football practice again, her ordering me around. She just needs a whistle."

Sarah gave Devon a wink. "I bet you kinda like it…"

Devon blushed tomato red. "A little, maybe. She's a looker. And smart." He got a guilty look on his face. After a beat, he asked: "Did you say _Hi _to Carina for me?"

"I did. And she says it back. — But you're a free agent, Devon. Carina might come around, she does like you, but I wouldn't advise pining away for her."

"I hear you, Sarah."

Holbert had moved to the door. "I'm heading upstairs. See you, Devon. Sarah, you're staying around?"

"Yes, Holbert, for a while. And, hey, use my desk, but not to wipe your feet, huh?" She gave Holbert and cold stare. He gulped, nodded, and retreated from the office.

Devon chuckled. "Man, when you go all glacier, you become the antarctic."

Sarah frowned at him. "I don't mean to. Honestly."

"I believe you. But it's like you become..._Jackie Frost_ or something. Anyway, I'm going to go. Don't stay too long. You didn't get much sleep last night."

"I won't. Oh, I should've told Holbert. I'm going under a flag for a while, as a maid, so don't give me away. The rest of the staff should know by now." Sarah looked back down at her notebook, hoping Devon would not ask any questions.

He did not. Devon took off his tweed jacket and put on his overcoat.

"Bye, Sarah. Do you want me to close the door?"

"Yes, and lock it. I'm going to change."

Devon closed the door and locked it. Sarah stripped off her street clothes and shoes and became a Palmer House maid.

* * *

Sarah slipped the envelope with the dart into her uniform pocket and left the front desk. Robert turned to talk to an early arriving guest. He was suggesting breakfast in the hotel's restaurant and offering to check the guest's bags. Sarah started toward the elevator.

She pushed the _Up _button, intending to go to the fifth floor. The _Chicago Tribune _had arrived and had nothing in it about the murder. So, the hotel had another day to try to handle the situation. The elevator opened and Chuck, dressed much as he had been when he checked in, stood before her. _So tall. _He had his knit cap in his hand. She smiled at him before she could mind her features.

_Room 843_.

He smiled back. "Wow, I have to say, Sarah Walker, that uniform color is...unexpectedly flattering." He said this as he stepped off the elevator, and Sarah took a couple of steps backward, maintaining her distance from him. He saw her backpedal and he blushed. "Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have said that, or not out loud," he dropped his voice, "I don't want to get you in trouble with management." He dropped his voice again. "And I hear that places like this have house detectives, ears and eyes everywhere…"

Sarah felt the lie in her answer, the uniform. "No, Chuck, that's...that's okay. I don't think anyone overheard. Thanks."

He grinned, relieved. "Good, because that blue...well, I never met a woman equal to wearing the sky."

Sarah felt herself blush, and she guessed it was the tomato red of Devon's earlier blush. "Chuck! You shouldn't say things like that."

"Too much?"

"Maybe a little. But it was very...sweet."

"Sweet. Sweet? Well, okay, I'll take what I can get. Say, any chance you could have some coffee with me?"

"I thought you'd still be asleep. After the _Hot-Pillow House._"

He gave her a slightly guilty look. "The problem with one of those places is that it preys on your imagination, and not just your ears."

Sarah was at a loss for a response to that. Chuck went on. "As you said at _Patel's_, you can't imagine it _all_, just the _parts_ that seem to carry the story…"

Sarah blushed again and Chuck blushed too. But he did not walk it back. He just gave her a goofy grin and a shrug. "So, coffee?"

"Do you promise to behave? No more...verbal indiscretions?"

He nodded meekly. She wanted to discover where Chuck had been on Friday after _Patel's_. She desperately hoped that he and his trench coat — wherever it now was — had been far from The Green Mill and far from the Palmer House, from Maria Tomek.

"Okay. Let me finish an errand, a half-hour or so, and I will be back down. I'll have time to go and get a cup of coffee then. Just wait for me in the lobby here." She indicated a chair next to the Chandler reader, still there, and far from Holbert, who was in a chair on the other side of the room, reading the _Tribune_. He peeked over it at her maid's uniform but did not react to it. Chuck followed her arm, shoulder to finger, to the chair she had in mind, and he nodded.

Sarah got on the elevator. Chuck stood and waved as the door closed. Sarah was tingling all over again, all tingly — but this time she did not try to ignore it, and she did not try to understand it, sort it, figure it out. She just accepted it.

She tingled all the way to the fifth floor.

It was time to have a more serious chat with Agent Rizzo. — _Rizzo?_

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

This is a big story with plots and subplots and lots of characters. As I said above, chapters will begin to lengthen out a little and the time between postings will lengthen too. Readers will have to work to keep it all in their heads or be willing to do some re-reading.


	5. (Can't Get No) Satisfaction

A/N: Our story moves along.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Five: (Can't Get No) Satisfaction

* * *

Sarah got off the elevator on the fifth floor and turned toward 564. The door open a crack and Sarah thought she could hear music as she got nearer.

_When I'm drivin' in my car, and the man come on the radio  
__He's tellin' me more and more about some useless information  
__Supposed to fire my imagination_

_I can't get no, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey  
__That's what I say  
__I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction  
__'__Cause I try and I try and I try and I try  
__I can't get no, I can't get no_

Sarah knew the song. _The Rolling Stones. _It was a recent hit and Carina turned up her radio in the apartment anytime it came on. Or she had — before her boyfriend was killed. The radio had been off mostly these days. _Maybe it was a good sign she had turned it on while they cooked last night?_ The song seemed strange coming from a room in which a murder had occurred.

As Sarah reached to push open the door it swung back, and Lakoff, Rizzo's partner, started out of the room. He stopped and looked at Sarah. Sarah pushed her glasses up her nose a bit. He realized who she was and he nodded, then slipped past her, or as much so as a man his size could do. His suit seemed to fit him worse than it had a little while ago. Sarah stepped into the room, the music slightly louder.

The room was busy. Rizzo stood in a corner, watching, arms crossed. The body was gone and men — a forensics team — were working in concert on the scene. Sarah stayed near the wall, working her way around to Rizzo. A radio, a small transistor, was on the coffee table, playing the music.

Agent Rizzo smirked when she saw her. "Demoted much?"

Sarah had not expected that comment and it took her a moment to shift gears. "Under a flag. Thought I might pick something up if I spent some time in the hallways as housekeeping."

Zondra shrugged. "Your house, your rules. Did you talk to Louisa?"

Sarah nodded. "I did. I don't know that she told me much more than you. She did mention it was a belted trench coat, although the belt was unbuckled."

Zondra took out her small notebook and pen and jotted that down. "Anything else?"

Sarah looked away from Zondra, looked toward the bloodstain on the floor, watching while one of the men took snapshots of it, the blood turning black for a second each time the flash went off.

"No, nothing. But if you send her home, I'll talk to her again later. Sometimes some sleep will jostle something loose."

Her eyebrows gathering, Zondra nodded. "Lakoff just went to send her home. Do you think she….?"

"Is involved? — Not likely. She's worked here for a long time. Nice lady. Catholic, a brood of young kids. The husband's a nice guy, a worker, but nothing ever seems to work out for him. She keeps them afloat working here, long shifts. Usually long, pregnant shifts, although she isn't pregnant now."

"So, they need money?"

Sarah thought about that. "Yes and no. Her husband's family has money, so they aren't in any danger of destitution, but they both hate to ask his family…"

"Seems like you do know her well." Zondra put the notebook and pen away.

"She was kind to me when I got started. Helped me figure out the housekeeping schedule, the way they worked. Knowing that is an important part of what I do...for various reasons."

"How'd you come to work here as a house dick?"

"Don't call me that, please. I just...lucked into it one rainy day."

Zondra shook her head. "Must've been a Morton's day — _when it rains, it pours_."

"I admit it's not glamorous work, but I like it. I've come to like it."

"No doubt getting to spend time with that Devon helps the minutes to move, huh?"

"No. I mean, yes, he's attractive, but we're just friends. We aren't a couple. In fact, he's not dating anyone right now." _Sorry, Carina, but he can't wait forever._

"Really?"

Sarah gave Zondra a significant nod, and for the first time, Zondra seemed on the defensive. "Well, um...I don't know how long I will be in town. And this," she indicated the scene, "will take all my time."

Sarah let the comment pass. She was thinking again about Zondra's last name. "Has law enforcement always been your thing, what you wanted to do?"

"I suppose. My dad...did similar work. I wanted to do it. But it's been a constant struggle. Trying to get into the FBI and trying to advance is a _bitch_ — for any woman, even if she is one or makes herself out to be one."

"Is your Dad still alive, still working?"

Zondra gave Sarah a hard look. "Why does this matter?"

"Just getting to know you, since we'll sort of be working together for a little while."

"Well, if by that you mean you will be staying out of my way, and will do what I ask, yes, I guess so." Zondra's gaze became deliberately, openly contemptuous. "After all, you are just the house dick."

Sarah stiffened, her eyes meeting Zondra's. Sarah could feel her own eyes ice over. Zondra blinked, stepped back. Sarah took a step toward her. "Don't call me that. Please." There was zero entreaty in Sarah's tone, only a temperature of absolute zero.

Zondra nodded tightly, tried to recover. "Alright, okay. — So, do you have any ideas about this? About the trench coat in the hallway?"

Sarah had been dreading that question all along. But Zondra had made her angry, and so the lie came more easily. "No, nothing definite. Trench coats are not uncommon in the Palmer House."

Zondra gave Sarah an unconvinced smirk. "I suppose. Bogart wannabe's lurking in every hallway, whistling _As Time Goes By_?"

"Something like that. I'll let you know if I find out anything definite."

"Okay. We've worked it out with Casey, George and I are going to stay here for the next couple of days or so, work out of a room upstairs, 996."

"Oh, the US Grant room."

"Huh?"

"It's the room Grant stayed in at the Palmer House. The Union general, later president...Except he didn't actually stay in that room, in fact, he couldn't have, since the Palmer House then, when he stayed, had only seven floors."

Zondra gave Sarah an annoyed, lost expression. "Ulysses Grant. I got that much. Why is it his room if he never stayed in the Palmer House?"

"Oh, he did. But the Palmer House has been three different buildings. The first burnt in the Chicago fire. It burned just thirteen days after it opened. Lucky thirteen, I guess.

"The second was seven stories, so no ninth floor. It was the building the Big Ten Conference was created in, at some meeting," Sarah shrugged, not fully understanding her own words, "or that's what Devon tells me.

"The last one, this one, was finished around 1925. I don't know why they didn't put the US Grant room on the seventh floor, but they didn't."

Zondra huffed a laugh. "Gee, I guess you _have_ come to like this job. So, yeah, anyway, we will be in the US Grant room. Lakoff was on his way there to get some shut-eye. I stayed to oversee the finish of the work."

Sarah looked at the men again, working in various parts of the room, intent. "Are they one of your teams?"

"You think I'd let the cops do this? Not only are they incompetent, but who knows how many are on the Outfit's payroll…"

"Still, why isn't there a Chicago Police Detective here yet?"

"There was. He arrived after you left and then went to the morgue with the body. Some Mattel _Ken_ _Doll_ named Shaw. Didn't strike me as the brightest of the head."

"Huh. Don't know the name."

"You will. He said he'd be back. No doubt he will. Like MacArthur: 'I shall return'."

And then Sarah knew. When she and her dad had been conscripted into work for the CIA, been _assets_, their handler was an Agent named Rizzo. He had a daughter, he said, around Sarah's age. Both Sarah and her dad thought he was lying — but this was her, this Agent Rizzo, FBI, was the daughter of that Agent Rizzo, CIA. Sarah had seen him once in Langley after the Farm, and only at a distance. He had not seen her. But he was the reason, really, she had ended up in the CIA, ended up Joad's errand-girl-with-a-gun. She knew because he had twice quoted that MacArthur line to Sarah. Same intonation, same delivery, same family. The daughter. Sarah kept her face from showing her recognition.

"Shaw. Right. I'll expect him. Oh, the house _detective _officially on-duty now is Holbert Lozier. He's downstairs in the lobby. You'll recognize him if you need him. Just look for dirty shoes."

"Thanks, I'll remember."

Sarah left, less than satisfied with the conversation, the men finishing their work and Rizzo, low-voiced, giving final orders.

Sarah shook her head inwardly. Rizzo was mercurial; she was work.

But Chuck was waiting.

* * *

As the elevator opened, Sarah found Casey on it. "You're still here?"

"Yes," Casey said, stepping off. "I've been with the 'gentlemen' of the press, the sons-of-bitches."

Sarah let the doors close. "Agent Rizzo and the FBI forensics team are finishing up. See if you can get her to let us in on what, if anything, the team found. Actually, get her number and have Devon call her to ask."

One of Casey's eyebrows changed altitude. "Devon? Is she?"

"Let's just say he'd have the best chance of worming something out of her."

Casey studied Sarah, clearly replaying her words, flatly inflected when she said them, in his mind. He grinned slowly. "Okay, I'll do that. See, this is why I wanted you mission-focused, Sarah Spook."

"Casey!"

His grin grew. "Oh, C'mon, Walker, give me that. It's just between us. It...fits, sometimes."

Sarah's annoyance grew. "Jesus, Casey, no, it doesn't."

He shrugged. "The hardest person to see is the person in the mirror."

Sarah shook her head in exasperation. "We've had too long a day — or is it two too long days? — for you to play oracle."

"I suppose. So, anything to report?"

"Yes, there is, although maybe Robert told you, or Andy, or Holbert?"

"No, I haven't been in the lobby. And Robert and Andy should be off-the-clock by now." Casey looked at his old, military wristwatch. "Grimes should be at the desk by now. Don't remember who is working as bellboy this morning. So, what's happened?" Casey's voice was both weary and wary.

Sarah told the story of Jeff Barnes and Andy and the tranq gun.

"Shit," Casey said when she finished. "Barnes is a small-time fuck-up. What the hell would he be doing with a weapon like that? What was he doing in an empty, under-repair room?"

"I don't know. I assumed he left the building, so I haven't had anyone looking. Should we mount a search, double-check?"

"No. I may not know how Barnes got that gun, but I know this. No one can give that putz courage. He'll be far from here by now. But I will just mention to folks to keep their eyes open. — Are you staying around a while?"

Sarah glanced away. "Yes, I am. I'm going to step out for coffee, then I will be back."

"Take your time. I'm going to stay until law enforcement leaves. Then I have to phone Mr. Hilton." Casey blew out a long sigh. "Ilsa's waiting at home. Tonight was date night. Didn't expect this mess…"

Sarah had met Ilsa. A beautiful French woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed, full-lipped. She looked like a Hollywood starlet. Sarah had often wondered how Casey met her but had not asked. Her guess was that they had met in Korea. Though it was not well known, there had been some French involvement in the conflict. Whatever the story, Casey was obviously deeply in love with her; she was the only thing he loved more than the Palmer House.

"No predicting it. I will stay around for a while."

Casey finally acknowledged what she was wearing. "As a maid? Under a flag, I take it."

Sarah glanced down at her uniform instead of meeting Casey's stare. "Long story, Casey. I'll explain it later."

One corner of his mouth curled. Sarah responded before he spoke. "No more spook comments. I'm too tired to fight about it."

She pushed the elevator button and the _ding _was immediate. Casey started down the hallway.

Sarah looked down it, her hand holding the elevator door open, allowing herself for a moment to be struck by the luxurious dark brown carpet, the taupe walls, the white trim, the portraits along the walls. She sometimes got so used to the hotel that she forgot how amazing it was.

* * *

Chuck was seated where Sarah put him when she went upstairs. He was chatting with the elderly Chandler fan and was himself holding the man's copy of _Playback. _ Sarah crossed the lobby. She saw Morgan look at her in the maid's uniform. She had gone down to the basement and retrieved her coat and scarf, so the uniform was obscured by them, but Morgan had obviously gotten the word about Sarah and was curious to see her in disguise. She ignored him.

"So," Chuck was saying, as he smiled at Sarah but responded to something the elderly man said, "you really think it's as good as Chandler's other novels, as _The Long Goodbye?_"

The elderly man smiled. "I do. Chandler finally saw through his own defective, detective mythology, the odd notion, fixation really, that a detective has to be alone. _Playback _is to Chandler's earlier novels what _Persuasion _is to Jane Austen's other novels. A mellow reckoning, a reassessment, and all to the good. Remember, Ann Elliot thinks she is destined to be alone too. It's too easy to be hard-boiled. The trick is being _soft-boiled_ and still getting out whole, shell cracked maybe, but intact. I've only recently learned that."

Chuck stood up as Sarah reached him. The elderly man did too. "Hey, Sarah, this is my new friend, Norbert Davis."

Sarah realized when he stood that he was not as elderly as she thought. He just looked tired. But the animated conversation seemed to have reanimated him. He was probably about sixty. "Good to meet you, Mr. Davis."

Davis turned to Chuck. "Yes, young man, she was worth waiting on. And you are right, I'd enjoy reading a description of her from Chandler. She would provoke him to outrageous similes."

Sarah gave Davis a look, but she saw nothing but admiration in his eyes, and humor. He was enjoying the conversation with Chuck, the meeting with her.

"I didn't know you were a reader of detective fiction, Chuck," Sarah said as Chuck put his knit cap on.

He smiled. "I like a lot of it some and some of it a lot. Chandler I like a lot. Mr. Davis here is a detective writer himself. I've read one of his books and I loved it: _Oh, Murderer Mine. _I can't believe I met him here."

Davis blushed. "I rarely meet anyone who has read anything of mine, much less liked it so much. — But I should let you two go."

Chuck handed Davis the copy of _Playback. _"I will read it soon."

"Good. I am almost finished. I will lend it to you if you will be around for a few days?"

"I plan to stay a week or so — it's open-ended at the moment." Chuck glanced at the lobby desk and then at Sarah. "I'm sure we will run into each other."

Davis nodded. "I suppose so. I will talk to you again when we do." Davis headed toward the elevators.

Chuck watched him leave. "Strange time and strange place to meet Norbert Davis."

"Is his novel really any good?"

"It is. It's odd. Not what you'd expect from him. He has a law degree from Stanford, my alma mater, but he never bothered to take the bar. He's here for a mystery-writers thing going on at the University of Chicago."

"Not what I'd expect? Why?"

"It's about an aging Hollywood beauty who has a much younger husband. She's, like 54, he's 26, I think, and she's worried that some younger beauty will steal him. She hires the detective, Doan, to help, him and his partner, a pony-sized Great Dane named Carstairs…"

"Okay, that is odd. But it's good?"

"Yeah, but, I guess it's not _Great Expectations._" Chuck gave her a nervous, slightly apologetic look. "But speaking of, I'm really glad you agreed to have coffee. Are you sure it's okay if we're seen together, talking together."

She nodded. "It's okay. So, can we go? I really could use some coffee."

"Sure, sure." He grinned. She saw him look at her hand, consider taking it, but he didn't. He turned and gestured for her to lead the way. She looked at his hand as she passed, considering, but she did not take his hand either.

They left the Palmer House. Sarah's glasses fogged as they stepped into the stiff, cold wind. The sun has risen but introvertedly, keeping its warmth to itself.

* * *

Sarah led Chuck away from _Patel's. _Mornings there were always crazy, people standing in slow-moving lines like they were awaiting The Final Judgment, sorting left and right. Sarah led Chuck in the opposite direction, to a small donut shop that made both so-so coffee and so-so donuts, but which was more than so-so warm. Her glassed unfogged.

Sarah felt tingly, so tingly, again. She leaned into the feeling as she leaned into the wind. Chuck pulled his cap down lower on his head. It was the same gold-brown-green color as his eyes. His cheeks were red from the wind, highlighting the green flecks in his gaze, and Sarah felt herself warming as he looked at her. There was something about his gaze, something male and yet not _male_ — not as she had known _male_. It was unlike Bryce's gaze; it was not demeaning in any way, but it was nonetheless disconcerting.

She knew what to do with a gaze like Bryce's, a gaze like the men's at the Farm. That gaze was the opposite of subtle. It made a demand but it did not issue a challenge. Chuck's did. It was as though he saw her as she was and as she could be, stereoscopically, saw the self she was and would be. It was exhilarating and daunting all at once.

But when he noticed her looking at him, his gaze clouded as it had each time she had been with him, and its frank openness closed. He grinned, as if aware of the shift and as if trying to make up for it.

They arrived at the donut shop, The Accordion Bakery. Sarah stopped as she reached for the door. "I should warn you, the name…."

Chuck paused, his grin still in place. "Yes?"

"It's also a description." Sarah pulled open the door and accordion music poured out. She gave Chuck a look, her eyes deliberately enlarged, and he laughed warmly.

They stood inside and shook off the cold. The so-so donuts and coffee — and the accordion music — guaranteed that the shop was never more than half full. A couple of delivery drivers were seated at the small counter, each wearing bibbed overalls beneath heavy brown jackets, and they were arguing about Sunday's Bears-Packers game. The argument was louder than might have been expected, carried on as it was over a live accordion tune.

Each driver was smoking a cigar and the pungent aroma filled the shop. The owner, Nick, was standing, his arms crossed, listening to the argument. Both arguers were convinced the Bears would win; the argument was over the margin of victory. Nick looked up and recognized Sarah. She did not count as a regular but she was not a stranger either.

Nick's wife, Sylvia, her costume jewelry over her uniform, was seated to the side of the small room, a black Wurlitzer expanding and compressing in her arms. The bellows, when Sylvia expanded the Wurlitzer, showed orange and yellow. The instrument was better to look at than to listen to. Sylvia gave Sarah a welcoming nod and a smile, swaying slowly in a contrapuntal rhythm to the expansion and contraction of the accordion.

Chuck took in the scene and then snuck a glance at Sarah, his grin sneaky and conspiratorial. He leaned to her and spoke into her ear. "Are we going to be able to talk in this din?"

His warm breath on her cold ear melted her a little, wax exposed to flame. She tried to ignore her reaction — it was as if her ear and her lower abdomen were near neighbors, the tingle moving from one to the other immediately — and she took a chair at the nearest green Formica table. Chuck sat down too.

Sylvia took her accordion off, shook the countless gold hoops on her arms, and walked to the table. "Hi, Miss Sarah Haven't seen ya in a while. Ya musta got a new job."

She was looking at Sarah's blue maid uniform. Luckily, neither Sylvia nor Nick knew she was a hotel detective at the Palmer House. They only knew she came by once in a while. But she had never been there before dressed as she was. Sarah smiled at her.

"No, I've just never been in uniform when I came in before, I guess. This is Chuck."

Chuck reached up and pulled off his cap. He stood and extended his hand. "Please to meet you, Sylvia."

"And you, Mr. Chuck. What can I get for y' two?"

"Two coffees," Sarah said as Chuck reseated himself, "and two of those apple fritters, if you still have some."

"We do. Coming right up." Sylvia walked around the counter. Sarah realized the drivers were no longer arguing. They were looking at Sarah and Chuck. When she looked back at them, they rotated on their stools like synchronized skaters and faced toward Nick.

"Apple fritters?" Chuck asked softly. "Sounds yummy."

Sarah had not expected that word from him or expected it to please her as it did. "They actually are. By far the best thing here, but most mornings they're gone by the time I get to work. The other donuts are, well, disappointing. And no _Great Expectations _for the coffee either. Lester's is much better, but we would not have been able to squeeze in there on a Saturday morning."

Sylvia came back with two coffees on saucers and two apple fritters, each on its own small plate. She served all of it to them. "Enjoy! Say, does either of you have any requests, a tune?"

Chuck fought down a grin and Sarah was glad to be facing away from Sylvia. To Sarah's surprise, Chuck answered, keeping a mostly straight face. "How about The Tic-Toc Polka?"

Sylvia gave a quick, delighted squeal. "Coming right up!" Sylvia put her tray down at a nearby empty table and put her accordion on.

As she did, Sarah gave Chuck an incredulous stare. "You know polkas?"

He shrugged. "I have a head full of mostly useless trivia. I had a neighbor, my sister and I did, who played polka records on Friday nights. Once in a while, I would stop by and listen with him. His wife was dead and he was lonely. This was his favorite. It made him think of her."

Sylvia launched the Wurlitzer with gusto. After a few opening bars, she began to sing, her voice no more ear-palatable than her Wurlitzer, but just as colorful and eager.

_Tick, tick, tick tock  
__Goes the clock on the wall  
__As we're dancing the evening away  
__Tick, tick, tick tock  
__Goes my heart  
__With the clock beating time  
__While the music is played_

Sarah actually listened to the words and they struck her as sad — because of Chuck's story. She imagined the old widower waiting for his time alone to wind down. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ She glanced at Chuck, her eyes watery. He gave her a weak smile, affected as she was by the words.

After a moment, he leaned toward her. "Weird, for a polka to seem so sad, huh? Sorry about that."

"It's okay. I might not mind this so much next time I come in. I'd never thought of the accordion as...bittersweet before."

Chuck shook softly with silent laughter. "I live to serve."

They sat and listened. Sylvia wrapped up the song and everyone in the place, Sarah and Chuck, the two drivers, and Nick, applauded. Sarah broke off a piece of her apple fritter. "Always good to cushion the blow of the coffee with the hug of the fritter." She popped the piece in her mouth, smiling at Chuck as she did. Then she took a sip of the tar-black, bitter coffee.

Chuck imitated her, his eyes showing his shock at the strength of the coffee. He shook his head as he swallowed. "That's not coffee, that's nuclear run-off."

Sarah laughed out loud, surprising herself. Everyone else in the shop smiled at the laugh, except Chuck, who laughed with her. And then she remembered why she was there, why she and Chuck were there.

She broke off another piece of the fritter and looked up. "So, how'd your meeting go yesterday, the one you were all dressed up for? Expensive monkey?"

Chuck looked down at his fritter and broke a piece off. He held it in his hand. "Okay. Well enough that I am staying in town for a while. I was really nervous about it. I don't know if you could tell…"

"I wasn't sure," Sarah confessed, "I knew something was up, especially when you decided to pass on your to-go coffee."

"Yeah, I decided I did not need to make myself tenser." He smiled, looking away then back at her. "Once, before a big final at Stanford, I stayed up all night. I was so sleepy the next morning that I was sure I'd drift off during the exam, so I drank a lake of coffee, then popped a double-dose of caffeine pills, 'cause, you know, I'm taller than the average bear." He smiled a smile of self-mockery.

"And dumber…" Sarah interjected quickly.

Chuck winced dramatically. "Wow, a viper's tongue."

Sarah grinned. "Don't you forget it." She ate her bit of fritter.

"So, I started writing the exam, in one of those blue books, and I was writing at the speed of light, brilliant, earth-shaking stuff, and then the pills wore off and I realized it was all gibberish. I had to start again. Barely pulled a B."

"Poor boy."

"Indeed. The only B I got at Stanford, if I may offer that up to rebuild my damaged standing." He ate his bit of fritter.

"It helps, but the _dumber_ part still seems most obvious." Sarah forced herself back on task. "Say, you weren't by any chance...I mean, I'm sure...You weren't at the Green Mill yesterday afternoon, were you, the nightclub?"

Chuck's face seemed to fold inward. The light in his eyes, snuffed. "Um...The Green Mile?"

"No, the Green Mill. I mentioned meeting you to a friend of mine, " Sarah hurried on, hoping he would not dwell on the significance of that confession, "and she said she saw someone who looked like that, like you, at the nightclub."

"Huh. Um... _no_, not me. My business was...someplace else."

"May I ask what it was? Where?"

Chuck gave her a tight, pained frown. "I'd rather you didn't, Sarah. It's not something you need to...It's just something private, personal. It would be better...if you didn't know."

Sarah was sure he was lying about the Green Mill. The bitter coffee felt like acid in her stomach, despite the sugary fritter. His concern for her did seem genuine, however. Still, he was lying to her.

But she was in a maid's uniform, lying to him. Lying to him when what she wanted was not to be lying to him but to be beside him, lying with him. _Room 843_. She made herself stop that thought, break it off before it generated an accompanying image in her mind.

_Too late_.

Chuck was looking around the shop, anywhere but at her. His fingers were tapping the green Formica tabletop but making no noise.

Sarah picked up her coffee and took a long drink. Bitter. She pushed back her chair. Stood. "I need to get back, Chuck. You probably need some sleep."

He looked hurt. She realized she had done it again. Iced over. _Jackie Frost_. But maybe that was for the best. Chuck was her suspect now.

She thought of the small transistor in Maria Tomek's room. _The Stones_.

_When I'm ridin' 'round the world  
__And I'm doin' this and I'm signin' that  
__And I'm tryin' to make some girl, who tells me  
__Baby, better come back maybe next week  
__Can't you see I'm on a losing streak?_

_I can't get no, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey  
__That's what I say, I can't get no, I can't get no  
__I can't get no satisfaction, no satisfaction  
__No satisfaction, no satisfaction  
__I can't get no_

Chuck stood up and put on his knit cap, still not making eye contact with her.

_No satisfaction._

* * *

A/N: Hard to tell what folks are making of this. Love to hear from you. The pace is going to be fairly slow. There's lots to do. Drop me a line, please?

Norbert Davis is a favorite detective writer of mine. He had killed himself well before 1965, a tragic story. I decided to write him alive and to write him into my tale.


	6. Guestimates

A/N: The last of our writer's housekeeping chapters. Almost everything is in place for the first arc to launch in earnest. Keep in mind that the pacing of this is deliberately _deliberate_.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Six: Guestimates

* * *

The walk back to the hotel was double-cold. Chuck seemed dispirited and ashamed, aware that he had caused Sarah to turn into Lake Michigan — slushy and unfathomable. And Sarah was miserable — suspicious of Chuck and drawn to him as she had never before been to a man, suspicious of him yet powerfully attracted to him. He had lied to her and she still wished he would hold her hand.

He did seem as if he was lying to her out of concern for her, a desire to protect her. And of course, he had no idea that his 'gallantry' was extended to a woman with a gun, a current hotel detective and a former spy and former con artist. A woman who needed no protection. He thought she worked in housekeeping at a hotel, wore a light blue uniform.

And she had felt so close to him in the donut shop, during their mutual near-tears during the playing of that sad polka, during their teasing conversation. Talking to him felt so natural to her — and talking rarely felt natural to her, spontaneous, free conversation.

_Why had he been at the Green Mill? Why wouldn't he just say?_ _Why had he been talking to a mob boss?_

She saw him sneak a look at her, and she could see he was steeling himself to speak. They were almost back at the Palmer House. She slowed her pace. He had been lagging a half-step behind most of the way but had finally pulled even with her. She turned to him as they stopped at a short distance from the hotel entrance.

Chuck frowned. "Strange time and strange place to meet a woman like you." His tone was defeated but not unkind. "I'm sorry if my...um...refusal to answer your questions makes me seem, I don't know, untrustworthy or...duplicitous. Or something.

"I made myself go...you know, when we were at _Patel's_. I never imagined I'd run into you here. I was just so surprised, so happy to see you. I shouldn't have...Well, suffice it to say, I shouldn't have…"

He hunched his shoulders and blew out a breath the cold allowed her to see, as the wind stole it from between them. The temperature had dropped while they were in the donut shop, despite the sunrise. Grey clouds were moving in, planning to stay. But the Saturday morning city was sluggishly coming to shivering life, traffic and pedestrians and snowflakes.

Sarah was torn. Tearing. She wanted to help Chuck; he seemed like he needed help. But she could not let herself get involved when it might turn out that he was part of Maria Tomek's murder. She could lose her job.

Part of her screamed that he must be innocent, that it was all a misunderstanding, some concoction of circumstantial evidence. But she kept tingling too. Trouble.

She had to keep her distance. Casey was depending on her. Mr. Hilton was depending on her. She was depending on herself. And she was not going to let a man fool her again as Bryce Larkin had done. Whatever contempt Agent Rizzo might feel for Sarah's job, Sarah liked it and wanted to keep it.

Her thoughts and feelings swirled in her as Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets, still waiting for her to respond.

"You're right," she said finally, softly. "This is a strange time and a strange place for us to have met, the wrong time and the wrong place, I'm afraid. Let's just...let it go. Two nice coffees, no more. Once I go back inside, I am just Sarah, hotel employee, a housekeeper, and you are Chuck, hotel guest, an out-of-towner, okay?"

He nodded, his eyes complicated, the green and gold flecks in them mobile, like the snowflakes in the air. Sarah felt herself drawn into his eyes, physically leaning toward him. She made herself step back and the spell broke. The wind whipped between them, blowing snow, obscuring each from the other for a moment.

"Okay, Sarah. Look, I don't want to make a nuisance of myself. I've seen friends go down that path, do that sort of thing. — But I'll just say how sorry I am that this is the wrong time and the wrong place because I'm far from sure you're the wrong girl."

He gave her a sad, resigned and lopsided smile, then walked down the street, not into the hotel. She stood in the wind and snow, trembling, watching him walk away from her.

* * *

Alone.

Sarah stood alone in the wind. But that feeling, loneliness, been hers since childhood. Her one true friend — or, anyway, her one constant companion. Her con-artist father had never been a real father, never been there for her, a man to trust and whose very presence sheltered her. He had strung her along, along behind him, from town to town. She had sometimes wondered if she liked the job at the Palmer House because she was, after all, at home in hotels. Hotels were as close to any home as she had ever had until she moved to Chicago.

The CIA had made it all worse, the regimented secrecy, the demanded lies, the never-ending covers, — the cost of all was a deep, abiding loneliness.

Carina was the first person who had made Sarah feel less alone, but Carina, before Doug anyway, had been too busy with her jobs and her parties and her merry-go-round of bedfellows to be there in a serious way for Sarah. Sarah was fond of Carina, loved her, and Carina loved Sarah, Sarah supposed — but Carina loved Sarah with Carina's brand of love, episodic, competitive and unrooted. Carina meant well, in her way, but she was hardly more shelter than Sarah's father.

The wind whipped up again. Sarah stood there a moment more, alone.

Exposed.

She gritted her teeth and went inside. It was time to do something about all this, at least where Chuck was concerned, time to take action. Even if it meant she dashed her own hopes.

_But I already did that, didn't I?_

Sarah walked to the front desk, her footfalls lugubrious. Morgan looked up from the register and waited, a contemplative, puzzled look on his face.

Sarah leaned against the desk, pushed up her glasses, and spoke softly. "Morgan, make a note for Casey. I am going to _Frisco_ a room, Room 843. Casey's given me some leash because of the Tomek murder. But I want it logged."

Morgan stared at her for a second, then he took out a different ledger, a logbook, one stowed under the front desk. He made a notation.

"Okay, it's logged. That's the…" he looked across at the guest register, "_Bartowski_ room?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes. You see my uniform. For now, I'm housekeeping; don't forget."

Morgan nodded obediently. "I got the word already. Is this Bartowski...dangerous?"

"Maybe." _Yes, to me. Maybe to others. No. I don't know. _"After I finish, I will be in my office. I will leave from there. I'm staying under the flag until further notice, okay? I will keep the uniform and shoes; have another uniform put in my office."

"Okay. I'll pass the word and make a note in the housekeeping file."

"Thanks." She started away, then stopped, came back. "Is the Miss America contingent gone?"

Morgan glanced away, cleared his throat. "Ahem...Um...Sorry. Casey wrote me up for that one. But I had never seen a figure like that. I needed _the figures_."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "No woman is a _two-by-four_, Morgan. Get your head out of your ass, and your mind off her ass, your eyes up to her eyes. You might actually find somebody, if you'd stop trying to find some _body._"

Morgan looked ashamed. "I know." His countenance shifted after a moment, shame lifting. "How's Carina?"

"Still in mourning. But I'm hopeful she's making some strides."

"Good, good. I liked her that one time we met — when she came to the hotel. Do you think she'll ever come back by?"

"I'm sure she will. Say, who's performing here tonight?"

"Josh White, the blues player. The show's sold out, but I could get you in — you and a friend?" Morgan paused. Sarah did not react. "He's great. Performed for Kennedy in '63. Did you see him on TV when he performed on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, during the March on Washington this summer?" Morgan radiated excitement.

"No, I didn't. I do recall reading about him performing for Kennedy, though. It was on the Civil Rights special, 'Dinner with the President'?"

Morgan nodded his head hard. "That's him. That's him alright. So, do you want to come? Carina too, maybe?"

"You can get us in?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure about me or about Carina. I'll call you later, if that's okay?"

"Sure."

"Good, I'm on my way up. If...Bartowski...should come by...Tall, broad-shouldered, wavy hair, overcoat, knit cap...If you see him, ring the room."

Morgan narrowed his eyes. "So, _he's_ a two-by-four?"

Sarah glared at Morgan in response. "No, he's not a two-by-four. That's not what I meant. I was just making sure you could ID him. He's...He's…"

She balled her hands into fists, frustrated with Morgan but more with herself. "So you will ring the room?"

"Will do." Morgan shut the logbook with a small smirk of self-justification but he did not present the smirk to Sarah. She saw it but she let it go.

She did not want to end up talking more about Chuck.

Sarah walked to the elevator. She got on and pushed the button for the eighth floor.

* * *

Sarah slipped her key ring back in her pocket and stood just inside the door of Chuck's room.

Inhaling, Sarah realized the room already smelled like him. She had not been aware of his scent before, but it must have registered on her because she knew it. A light, crisp scent of Bay Rum and soap and Chuck, all blended. Then she remembered it from when he whispered in her ear at the donut shop. That memory warmed her more than she wanted to be warmed, and in places that did not need to be warmed.

She took off her coat and scarf and walked to the bed. It was unmade, but it did not look as if it had been slept in. The covers were pulled back but were unmussed, neat and flat. The pillow was fluffy and not indented.

The chair beside the bed had an ashtray drawn to it. There were no ashes in it, no cigarette butts. Instead, there were wrappers, clear cellophane candy wrappers of the sort peppermints were wrapped in. She picked one up and held it near her face. The cool odor of peppermint clung to it. She counted: there were twelve wrappers in the ashtray.

A hardback book was tented on the floor on the opposite side of the chair. She put her finger in it to mark the page and picked it up so that she could read the title on the spine. The light was not great in the room, so she stepped to the window, tilting the book's spine toward the window so as to see the title better.

_Psycho-Cybernetics_

Maxwell Maltz

Sarah turned the book around to look at the opening. The book was open to the first pages of Chapter Three: _Imagination — The First Key to Your Success Mechanism_. Sarah read the initial sentence: "IMAGINATION plays a far more important role in our lives than most of us realize."

Maltz. A self-help book. _Really?_

There was a faint pencil check beside the sentence, and Sarah looked down to see that a pencil, half under the chair, half out, rested on the floor. She flipped back through the pages to see other such marks often in the margins.

On the fly-leaf was Chuck's ink signature. She put the book back down carefully, making sure it stayed open to the right pages.

She walked to the bathroom and looked inside. Chuck had showered. A damp towel was hanging from a hook. Otherwise, the bathroom was neat. She saw a small kit on the sink. It was open. Inside was a small bottle of Bay Rum, deodorant, a toothbrush with a travel cap, a small travel-sized Colgate, halfway rolled, a small bottle of Bayer aspirin, a few tablets remaining, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, nearly empty.

One of the hotel-supplied glasses was turned up and still damp inside. Sarah left the bathroom and walked to the closet. She pulled out the large suitcase, the one she had seen when Chuck checked in.

She slid the suitcase away from the closet — it was heavy — and tipped it onto its side. She unlatched the latches on each end, but the center latch required a key. Sarah took out her key ring. On it was a small metal tool. She used it to unlock the bag. It took her only a couple of seconds. Farm skills.

She knelt and lifted the top of the suitcase. Inside, she saw his trench coat, folded, atop everything else. Memorizing how it was folded, she lifted it out of the suitcase. Its belt was in the loops, but the buckle was unfastened. She stood up, letting gravity unfold the coat. She scanned the front but saw no stains. Again, she caught a whiff of Chuck's scent. Again, her body reacted. She shook her head as if to issue a command to the rest of her.

She grabbed first one sleeve and then the other, checking the cuffs. She looked at the left one, saw nothing untoward, then lifted the cuff to her nose. The scent of Chuck, stronger. She looked at the right. Again, she saw nothing untoward. But when she lifted the cuff she smelled the distinctive odor of gunpowder, not the distinctive scent of Chuck.

Her heart sank stone-like, cold and unbeating. _No!_

She examined the cuff more closely, the odor unmistakable. She found no bloodstains, no other incriminating features, but that one was enough. She put the coat on the bed and knelt again beside the suitcase. It was too heavy for clothes alone. There had to be another source of weight. She moved aside some folded sweaters and jeans. In the bottom, strapped down, was a small toolbox on one side and a reel-to-reel tape player on the other. The tape player bristled with knobs and buttons. A telescoping antenna, much like the one on the transistor radio that had been playing in Tomek's room, was attached to it, retracted.

She unstrapped the small metal toolbox. Inside was a profusion of small bits of electronics — Sarah did not recognize any of the bits specifically — and a set of small screwdrivers, a small pair of needle-nose pliers, a roll of electrical tape, and a small soldering iron.

There was also a teal Parker 51 fountain pen, much like Sarah's. Chuck had not been lying about that, but finding it made Carina's story seem more conclusively to be a story about Chuck.

Sarah was about to pick up the pen when the room phone rang one time.

_Morgan! Chuck was coming._

Sarah quickly put everything away, shutting the toolbox, restacking the clothes and refolding the trench coat. She closed the suitcase and, her hand slipping, causing her to curse under her breath, she locked and relatched the suitcase. She slid it back into the closet.

She heard a key at the door. She had taken too long. She grabbed her coat and scarf, flattened out and rolled under the bed. The door opened a second later and she saw Chuck's shoes, the cuffs of his pants, as he walked in and closed the door. He walked to the bathroom. She heard him take a drink of something, two heavy swallows, and then drop it in the trash. She saw it as it fell into the can: the empty Pepto-Bismol bottle.

Chuck left the bathroom and walked to the chair. He bent down and picked up the book, but he did not glance beneath the bed. Sarah prayed he was not settling in for a long session of self-help reading.

To her relief, he walked around to the door and left the room again. Sarah exhaled as she heard his footsteps receding.

She waited, counting to sixty, and then rolled out from under the bed. Leaving her coat and scarf on her arm, she cracked open the door. The elevator doors closed. Another exhale. She stepped out of the room and walked to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

She had imagined visiting Room 843 but her visit was not the visit she imagined.

_What are you up to, Chuck Bartowski?_

* * *

Sarah sat down at her desk in the basement office.

It had been a very long night and a very long morning and it was not quite 8 am.

She tried to imagine why Chuck had the toolbox and tape player in his suitcase. She was unable to come up with any satisfactory explanation.

And the odor of gunpowder on his trench coat sleeve. Circumstantial, sure, but about as damning as circumstantial evidence got.

_And where was his monkey suit, his expensive monkey suit? It was not in the closet, not in the suitcase? _

_Why is he drinking _Pepto-Bismol? _He didn't seem sick, although that coffee at Accordion, that stuff was nuclear run-off, as Chuck said. But he'd obviously been drinking the Pepto before the Accordion coffee. And the peppermints? What about them? Pepto and peppermints?_

She put her head down on her desk, resting her forehead on the chilly metal, trying to slow her thoughts, draw rein on her emotions. After a few minutes, she got up and put on her coat and scarf. She put a note on Devon's desk, asking him to call her when he came in. That done, she left the Palmer House by a side entrance, walking out into the snow and wind, heading to board the "L".

Lonely. Alone.

Maybe Carina would be at the apartment. It was still early. Sarah hoped so. She did not relish the thought of returning to an empty apartment. She found a seat and closed her eyes, trying not to think, not to imagine, trying to make herself uncoil. Her hands were balled into fists and she forced them open, resting them palm-down on her legs.

* * *

When Sarah arrived at the apartment, Carina was there, but asleep. Sarah put her coat and scarf up in the hallway. In the kitchen, she put a pot on a burner. Rubbing her hands against her arms, she walked to the small table and sat down.

Carina's pack of Salem's was open on the table, her ashtray half full beside the pack, her Zippo there as well. For a moment, Sarah thought about lighting a cigarette. It had been a bewildering twenty-some hours.

She still was unsure what Casey was expecting her to do. She worried that she might already be guilty of hindering an FBI investigation, since she had said nothing to Agent Rizzo about Chuck. But she really had no evidence of any substantial sort, or very little. The odor on his jacket — her heart sank again — was a very bad sign but it did not make him guilty of Maria Tomek's murder. The basic problem was that Sarah simply could not imagine him a murderer no matter how she tried. She could imagine him many things, but not that. And yet, her tingle had never been mistaken before.

The teapot whistled. Sarah got up and made tea then took it back to her seat.

Chuck was up to something, involved in something, even if he was not Maria Tomek's killer.

"Well, look at who's thinking hard this early in the morning. What's got your brow all knotty, Sarah-girl?"

Sarah turned to look at Carina. She was wearing a short blue nightie. Her feet were encased in ridiculous flamingo-pink slippers. She walked to the table and grabbed her cigarettes. "You mind?"

Sarah shook her head. Carina took one out and put it in her mouth, lighting it with the Zippo. Sarah watched the procedure much as she'd watched Robert lighting his pipe. Carina took the cigarette from her mouth, twirled it in her fingers so that the filtered end was toward Sarah. "Want a puff?"

Sarah took it and inhaled slowly. She handed it back to Carina, exhaling the smoke. It steadied her a bit.

"I'm thinking about the last day. It's been a doozy."

"You left here at, like 3 or 4 am or so, right?"

"Around then."

"What happened?"

"Everything. Nothing." Sarah gestured with her hands, palms up. "I don't know. There was a murder in the hotel."

"What? Way to bury the lede, Sarah. Do tell!" Carina sat down on the couch, legs crossed, one flamingo-pink slipper dangling, going up and down with her eagerness.

Sarah told the story, allowing herself to include Chuck in it, from beginning to end. By the time she finished, she had handed Carina the Salems and Carina had smoked two more.

"Jesus, what a mess…" Carina took a hard drag from her cigarette, its end a fiery orange. "No wonder you look so...unhappy."

"I'm not…"

"Oh, C'mon, Sarah. You doodled Chuck's name. You can't talk about him now without your voice getting syrupy, without moving in your chair. You've got it bad for your suspect. Sarah wants her Wanted man."

Sarah was not going to admit it but she was too tired to deny it. Carina studied her through a cloud of Salem smoke. "Wait, wait. This is your first time, isn't it?"

"I'm not a virgin, Carina."

Carina waved her hand at Sarah and at the smoke. "I know that. That's not what I meant. I'm talking about your heart, not your….you know." Carina gestured vaguely at Sarah's lap. "I mean you've never really _fallen _before, have you?"

"I'm not in love with Chuck Bartowski if that's what you mean. I haven't even known him for twenty-four hours."

Carina waved her hand again. "That's not what I meant, either. I mean you _could_ fall in love with him and you _know_ it. _The fall before the fall_, I call it. The moment when you know you're just a moment from a-moment-too-late. I know: it happened with Doug." Carina's voice grew husky. "And it scared me to death."

Sarah looked away from Carina, out the tiny window. The sky was dark grey, clouded and sunless. _Have I fallen? The fall before the fall? No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Why does he confuse me so much? _

Carina was no longer studying Sarah. She seemed lost in her own memory. Sarah saw it and left her there for a little while.

Carina finished her cigarette and returned to the present.

Sarah spoke. "Say, you want to go hear some blues tonight? Josh White's playing at the Palmer House. He's supposed to be really good. Morgan said he could get us in. Devon will be there too."

Carina let Morgan and Devon pass without comment. "Josh White? Hell, yeah, I'd love to go."

"And can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"We'll find some way for you to see Chuck, and you can tell me if it was him at the Green Mill."

Carina gave Sarah a long look, then nodded.

* * *

Sarah went to her room.

She kicked off her shoes and crawled beneath her bed's covers. Images of the day slipped in and out of her mind. But it was the image of Chuck seated across from her at the donut shop, his eyes watery in response to the Tic-Toc Polka that kept coming back to her, but each time, she smelled the odor of gunpowder.

And each time, she was falling.

* * *

A/N: Again, I am working with some real events and real people, but moving them around in space and time.

If you don't know the music of Josh White, you should look it up.

Tune in next time for Chapter Seven: "Ovation Blues". It's showtime! The action of the first arc begins to heat up.


	7. Ovation Blues

A/N: An important chapter in the first arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Seven: Ovation Blues

* * *

Sarah woke from her nap but did not immediately get up.

She lingered on the rocky shores of sleep, waves of images returning to her, some remembered, some created, some a union of the two. Most involved the bed in Room 843, the bed she had been under but not in, but the one she kept imagining herself in.

Chuck's bed.

She twisted herself under her covers, dissatisfied, and annoyed at her dissatisfaction. She needed to stop imagining and recognize that _that _was never going to happen, the bed thing. Never.

She and Chuck. Chuck and her. Over and over. Tops and bottoms. Bottom or top. Top.

Still, despite her annoyance, her longing for him did not decrease. Much the opposite. She sighed a low, guttural sigh. It made no sense to linger longer in her bed, in images of his bed. She needed to get up and face her situation for what it was.

It was mid-afternoon. She was done with Chuck, except perhaps professionally, as a hotel detective.

She got up and showered. She put the maid's uniform in a bag to return it to the Palmer House and put the uniform shoes beside her bed. She went to the hallway and picked up the phone. Carina did not seem to be in the apartment. There was no smoke, no odor of recent smoke. All was clear, quiet.

Sarah phoned the Palmer House front desk. Morgan answered, his voice formal. "The Palmer House."

"Hi, Morgan, it's Sarah. Is Devon riding the lobby?"

"Not yet. He just got here. There's been a bit of an altercation in a guest room but Holbert's gotten it under control. A guest and her husband. Nothing for you to worry about. You want me to give Devon a message?"

"Yes, when you get a chance, tell him to call me. It's about the Tomek murder. Is Casey there?"

"Arrived a couple of hours ago. He's upstairs with the FBI agents right now. The agents have been interviewing more of the staff and guests today."

"Right. So, have Devon call me."

"Will do, Sarah. Hey, are you and Carina going to come to hear Josh White?"

"Yes, we both will be there. Keep us some decent seats, if you can."

"I can. See you then."

Sarah said goodbye then hung up.

She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. A plastic container had some left-over salad in it, and, looking around the kitchen, she saw an apple in the fruit bowl. She grabbed the container from the fridge, the apple from the counter, and a plate from the cupboard, and she sat down to eat.

Just as she finished washing off her plate, the phone rang. She hurried to it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sarah, it's Devon. You called?"

"I did. Are you in our office, can you talk?"

"Yes, I'm in our office."

"Have you talked to Agent Rizzo yet today?"

Devon chuckled softly, self-consciously. "No, I haven't. Why?"

"Look, I'm pretty sure she sorta likes you. And we need to know as much of what the FBI knows as we can. I'm sure they'll share a little with Casey, but we need more than that. I'm hoping you can...talk to her, encourage her to share."

There was silence on the line for a moment. "I'll be happy to try. I'm not sure she'll tell me anything."

"Oh, I suspect she will. Maybe not first thing, but don't take _no_ for an answer."

Devon cleared his throat. "Um, Ahem, right. Right. I'll see what I can do. I'll try to talk to her before the White show tonight."

"I'll be at the show. Carina too."

The line was silent. "Devon?"

"Maybe I will see you, both of you, but Casey always wants the bellboys and me to sweep the corridors during the show — a good time for thieves to try doors."

"I know the drill. Anyway, we'll keep an eye out for you."

* * *

Carina returned not long after Sarah talked to Devon. She had been out shopping, buying new slacks and a new sweater to wear to the Palmer House.

Sarah got ready but did not have anything new to wear. She chose a favorite warm blouse, blue, and a pair of dark jeans. She intended to see but not be seen. She was interested to hear White, but her real hope was to see Chuck. She let her brown hair down and let it fall straight around her face.

Carina had eaten while she was out and Sarah's late lunch was late enough to count as dinner too, so they sat and drank tea and talked until it was time to go to the hotel. Their talk ranged over several topics but Sarah kept steering it away from Chuck. He was preying on her thoughts and emotions as it was. She was excited about seeing him in a way that made no sense if he was what she told herself she suspected him to be — somehow involved in Maria Tomek's murder. She thought of the title of the Norbert Davis novel Chuck told her about: _Oh, Murderer Mine. _That tile was too close to a description of her own predicament.

Finally, a few minutes before they were to leave, Carina just asked the question. "What happens tonight, Sarah, if he is the man from the Green Mill? He's been on your mind all evening; I can tell. Do you really think you can just treat him like a criminal, that you can reject him, say _no_ to him? Because you to seem more ready to say _yes._"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You know a little about my dad, my childhood, my CIA work, the Farm. I can say _no_: no problem. Like I told you, I ended things with him this morning, anyway."

Carina shook her head. "The fall before the fall."

* * *

Sarah entered the Palmer House with Carina by the side door she used often to go in and out. They went down a flight of stairs and Sarah unlocked the basement door. They went to the office to hang up their coats.

The office door was open, the orangey light spilling out into the hallway. They went in and found Devon. He was standing, but bent over his desk, making a note in a file.

He stood up and saw Sarah — and Carina. He smiled but a beat slow. "Hey, Sarah, Carina! Good to see you. I was just noting an incident. Woman upstairs is missing a diamond bracelet. But she's not sure she packed it…" Devon shook his head. "I'm guessing she didn't. And her husband seems sorta fidgety. I'm wondering if the reason it isn't packed is that he pawned it for cash or gave it to his mistress. Weird couple. She's probably 50-ish, but still a looker. He's my age or thereabouts, poster boy smile."

"What's the name and floor?" Sarah asked as she hung up her coat and scarf, stepping away so Carina could imitate her.

"Her name is James, second floor, Room 2024. I guess she and her husband had a screaming fight in their room earlier but Holbert managed to be oil on the waters."

"Holbert did?" Sarah raised an eyebrow.

Devon chuckled. "Yeah, go figure. He's normally fire on gasoline."

"That's the same woman who called about Barnes, I think."

"It is," Devon nodded, "and seeing Barnes is part of the reason she's been cataloging her jewelry. — Wow, Carina," Devon said, shifting his gaze, "you look...very nice."

Sarah turned to see Carina's reaction. Carina smiled and gazed warmly at Devon. "Thanks, Devon. Just bought these today." Carina twirled flirtily, the old Carina before Doug. "Glad you like them."

"The show's going to start soon. You two should get up there. Sarah, I talked to Zondra — um, Agent Rizzo," Devon blushed and Carina's smile vanished, "and I need to tell you some of what she told me. But it can wait until after the show. I should get back into the corridors."

"I will come back down afterward, Devon."

"Me, too," Carina added.

Morgan entered the office at just that moment. "Hey, all! Glad you two are here. White started a bit early so it's been...complicated...holding onto your seats." He gave Carina a bright smile. "But I did. Hold onto your seats. I mean, your chairs."

"Thanks, Morgan," Sarah said. "Have guests been leaving because of the murder?"

"A few. But not many. Casey's done his usual, masterful job, made folks understand it was just a random event, unconnected to the Palmer House itself. He's convincing when he wants to be."

"That he is."

Morgan turned and led Sarah and Carina back into the hallway, back toward the stairs. "Oh, I talked to...Bartowski...Chuck...today. If that guy's dangerous, I'll shave my beard."

Sarah felt Carina jostle her with an elbow.

Morgan went on, rhapsodizing in his way. "He's really something. Smart, funny. He introduced me to this writer staying here, Norbert Davis. They're quite a pair. I had a blast listening to them talk about detective novels. I like that Chuck guy. If we lived near each other, I think we'd be buddies. We like the same TV shows, the same movies, the same comics…"

"Comics?" Carina asked, another jostle.

"Yeah, Bartowski, Chuck, he reads _everything_. High and low, including comics. He mentioned some weird book I should read. A book about psychos and cyborgs or something…"

"Psycho-Cybernetics," Sarah said quietly and heard Carina chuckle. Sarah had left Chuck's book title out of her story to Carina.

"Yeah, that's it. Never understood what it was about, but he and Davis talked about it for a while, standing in the lobby. Davis kept telling him he should just read some old, dead guy instead. Epictetus, or something like that…"

Morgan fell silent. "Although one odd thing did happen," he stopped on the stairs and turned to face Sarah and Carina, "a call came for him while he was in the lobby. A woman. He took it and after that, he didn't have much to say. He just ate a couple of peppermints and listened to me and Davis talk about detective movies. He seemed...I don't know...worried or sad or something. But he's supposed to be at the show."

Morgan led them up and along a hallway to one of the theater's side door. "Hey, White's playing his signature Ovation tonight for the first time. He's the first black musician to have a signature guitar." Morgan smiled at the thought. "Time's are changing."

Carina looked at Morgan and nodded. "Not fast enough."

"No," Morgan said, "not nearly. But at least there's change."

* * *

Sarah and Carina entered through the door, careful not to open it too much so as to spill unwelcome light into the darkened room.

People were seated around small tables and in chairs along the walls. On the stage, the band was aglow in the spotlight. A small area in front of the stage was cleared for dancing.

Smoke hung heavy in the air.

Morgan led them to their seats and they sat down. Morgan left, after one stolen glance at Carina. If she noticed, she did not react. Sarah looked at the stage. Josh White was playing, singing, accompanied by an upright bass player, a drummer, and a keyboard player. They were playing a ballad, Scarlet Ribbons.

White was playing the looping, open-textured rhythm on the guitar, his Ovation, the bass player complimenting him, slipping into the open spaces. Sarah listened for a moment. A beautiful song about a little girl praying for scarlet ribbons for her hair.

_All the stores were closed and shuttered_  
_All the streets were dark and bare_  
_In my town no scarlet ribbons_  
_Not one ribbon for her hair_

_Through the night my heart was aching_  
_Just before the dawn was breaking_  
_I peeped in and on her bed_  
_In gay profusion lying there_  
_I saw a ribbon, scarlet ribbons_  
_Scarlet ribbons for her hair_

Sarah scanned the crowd. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she peered more intently at the people around the small tables. And then she saw him. She elbowed Carina gently. Carina, suspended in the ballad, took a moment to respond, to look at Sarah. Sarah indicated Chuck without pointing.

Carina looked at him. She kept looking at him. Then she turned to Sarah, frowning, and nodded her head. "That's him," she whispered, "definitely. He was at the Green Mill with Accardo. Chuck?"

"Yeah."

"Yummy, indeed. Too bad, Sarah."

Sarah had believed Chuck was lying about it, or part of her had. Another part had been desperately clinging to the hope that he was not. She blinked, her eyes suddenly moist.

Then she felt Carina's hand grab her arm, squeezing hard. "Look who's sitting beside him!" Carina hissed softly.

Sarah had only seen Chuck. Now she saw two men at the table with him, both wearing dark suits. Sarah did not know them. "Those are Accardo's men, wiseguys. Don't know their names. Low-level but mean as hell. They've mistreated some of the girls at the Green Mill."

Sarah looked again. The song had ended and applause, loud and appreciative, rose up. One of the men leaned to Chuck and whispered something in Chuck's ear. As he did, he patted the pocket of his suit jacket, and Chuck's eyes followed the gesture. Chuck nodded, his gesture taut in response. The two men stood and left as the applause died.

Sarah watched them go, memorizing their faces, their gaits. She turned back to Chuck. He was staring at the floor. After a moment, he fished in his pants pocket and took something out. A peppermint. He unwrapped it deliberately, taking his time, then he put the candy in his mouth.

Sarah could almost smell it though she was at a distance from him. Olfactory memory, not a current experience. Chuck put the wrapper in the ashtray on his table. As he did, he saw Sarah — and saw her staring at him.

White, on stage, finished re-tuning his Ovation after moving the capo.

He spoke into the mic. "We have some room up here for dancers, and we thought after that ballad, we might change things up a bit by playing an instrumental, one that you couples can dance to. So, if you are young and in love, or just young because you are in love, come on up!"

The band began a slow, dreamy, bluesy melody.

Sarah watched, almost out-of-body, as Chuck stood, adjusted his sweater nervously, and crossed to her, winding the narrow, twisty pathway between the tables, between them.

Sarah heard Carina whisper-mutter: "Uh-oh."

And then Chuck was standing in front of her. _So tall. Those eyes. _He gave her an apologetic, sweet smile. "I know I'm not supposed to. I do. Wrong time, wrong place. But please dance with me, Sarah."

Sarah found herself in his arms on the dance floor before she knew she said _yes. _

She danced with Chuck in the smoky darkness, the slow-whirling blue smoke, the slow-sounding blue notes, the thump-thump-thump of her heart, her eyes closed — indoor fireworks.

Some distant voice inside her was listing things: _Green Mill, trench coat, gunpowder._ But the voice became more and more distant until it was inaudible.

Drifting, her head against Chuck's shoulder, her body pressed to his, she could smell him — and peppermint. She inhaled and let him spin her slowly, luxuriating in his closeness, in the slow out-spreading of her desire for him, radiating from her center, undulating in syrupy waves, warming her to her fingers and toes. She gave her imagination free play. She got warmer still and pressed herself against Chuck more firmly.

Firm. Chuck.

She leaned her head back as she turned and looked up. His eyes were near, full but enshadowed. She parted her lips slightly and shifted her gaze to his lips. He leaned forward and he kissed her, a kiss of deliberate desire, unhurried but hungry, oh-so-hungry. She tasted him — and peppermint.

Peppermint.

Sarah cooled suddenly, extremities to center, withdrawing, fully aware of where she was and what she was doing for the first time since he asked her to dance. She stepped away from him, creating distance between them.

"Chuck, who were those men, the ones at your table?" She asked in a whisper but knew he heard her. His eyes darkened. "Sarah, I...They're not anyone you need to be worried about."

Sarah took his hand and led him off the dance floor, out the side door that she and Carina used to enter. The band was ending the slow song.

The hallway was empty. Sarah stopped and turned to Chuck, dropping his hand. His gaze was unreadable again, like just before he left _Patel's_.

"Look, Chuck, my roommate and friend, Carina, she's the one saw you, _you, _at the Green Mill. You were talking to Tony Accardo. Carina took a couple of photographs. And she's here tonight, she confirmed it was you, and she knew those two men who were talking to you. Not by name, but by reputation, association. They work for Accardo. They're bad men. — I'm worried about you." _There. I said it. _"What the hell is going on?"

Chuck sighed. His shoulders, his broad shoulders slumped. "Sarah, I can't get anyone else mixed up in my troubles. Especially not someone...like you. I just can't risk any more than I already am." He looked at her as if trying to will her to understand him, to stop asking. She saw fear and worry and anger all deep in his eyes. None of it was directed at her, although she believed he was afraid for her. She could just tell him — tell him who she was and what she knew and find out what was going on.

But what if he was on the wrong side of all of this? Could she really do her job if he was? She had felt so safe in his arms for a moment on the dance floor, so safe and yet so thrillingly alive. Could she give that up, turn on him, turn him in? Or would she just end up on his side of all this, the wrong side, but _his _side?

"Chuck, I know some people who might be able to help you if you'd just tell me. Didn't what just happened, that dance, that kiss, mean anything?"

He grimaced, rubbed his stomach, his pain emotional and physical. He did not answer. Instead, he took out another peppermint, unwrapped it quickly this time, and put it in his mouth. He shut his eyes as he sucked on it. After a moment, his hand left his stomach and went back to his side.

"Sarah, what just happened, that dance, that kiss, was the high point of my life so far, a memory I will cherish in a spotlight forever. I wanted to kiss you since you turned to me on that stool in _Patel's. _Never think that meant nothing. But I can't, I can't tell you about this. The things I've done…"

He turned and walked away from her, long strides.

Again. Like that morning, outside.

Alone.

Sarah stood, hurt and fuming. She headed for the lobby. Robert was at the desk and he half-bowed. He had been checking his watch; he slipped it back into a vest pocket. "Can I help you, Sarah?"

"Is Casey back there?" She gestured to the office behind the front desk.

"Yes, he is. Go on in."

Sarah went around the massive wooden desk and to the office door behind it. She knocked and heard Casey's gruff _Come in! _She was not sure what she wanted to ask him or tell him.

Casey was seated at a large, antique rolltop desk. He was studying a piece of paper in his hands. He held it out to Sarah. "Advanced copy of the _Trib's _article on the Tomek murder. The reporter sent it over by delivery boy. Not great, but more or less contained. The Palmer House seems more like another victim than a guilty party. Mr. Hilton will be happy about that."

Sarah scanned the article, forcing Chuck from her mind. The headline: _Showgirl Murdered at Palmer House_. There was a photo of Tomek, predictably sexy — she was in a form-fitting dancer's dress with a short skirt, her long legs fully in the photograph — below the headline. The article spent most of its words on Tomek's history, her connection with the Chicago Outfit, her disappearance, and her fatal reappearance.

The Palmer House was not mentioned more times than was necessary, and there was a reassuring quotation from Casey about the Palmer House doing everything it could to aid the investigation of the tragedy. The FBI was not mentioned and no Chicago police were identified by name.

"That's not bad for us, Casey, given everything. But I hate it for her. Her legs are more the focus than her life." Casey grunted agreement. "Morgan tells me you've reassured the guests and that there's been no exodus from the hotel."

"A few blue-hairs left all atwitter, but no, no exodus. How is your mission going?"

Sarah sighed. "Okay. Can you tell me anything that the FBI has learned?"

"Not much," Casey huffed, "that Rizzo's a hard one to read and Lakoff is like some chubby non-entity, around but not around, filling his suit but hardly filling the air, if you know what I mean."

Sarah nodded.

"I do think the FBI has some new information. I don't know how they got it and I don't know what it is, but I can tell they know something new. Lakoff's actually been gone most of the day, following up some lead or other."

"Anything new on the trench coat leaving the floor? The man Louisa saw?"

"I don't know. Rizzo never said, one way or the other." Casey gave Sarah a close, estimating look. "Do you know something, Sarah Spook?"

"Casey…"

"Well, do you?"

Sarah inhaled. "Nothing definite. Or not too definite. But...Well, I do have an _angle_, but playing it means that I may have to pretend to be on another side of this…"

"You mean, not on the hotel's side?"

"Exactly that."

"So, you'll be sort of undercover, pretending to be a double-agent. Not on the hotel's side but really on the hotel's side?"

Sarah frowned but nodded.

"You really are spooky, Sarah."

"Casey…"

"Sorry. Do what you have to do. You have full latitude to act within your own judgment. And if you can't make your regular shifts, let me know. I'll put up with more Holbert if I have too, for a while. — Aren't you going to tell me more about it?"

"Not yet, Casey. Trust me." _God, I don't trust myself. What am I doing? What are you up to, Sarah Walker?_

"I do. Good hunting, Sarah."

Sarah left the office. She went downstairs and left Devon a note. She pinned another to Carina's coat, telling her not to wait to go home.

Sarah got on the elevator and rode it to the eight floor. She got off and walked to Room 843. Using her skeleton key, she let herself in, careful to be silent. _Sarah Spook._

Chuck was in bed, asleep. Standing in the dark, Sarah took off her shoes and socks, unbuttoned her blouse, removed it, and then unfastened her slacks, sliding them down. She saw Chuck roll over, saw him open his eyes, see her. Start.

"Sarah? How? What?"

She put her finger to her lips. She unhooked her bra and dropped it on the floor. She rolled her panties down her hips. She could hear Chuck's breathing speed up. And her own.

Her heart was thump-thump-thumping. _What am I doing? — I know what I am doing._

She stood naked before Chuck. She walked to the bed. Chuck lifted the covers for her and she slid in and against him, pressing herself firmly against him. Firm. She started to unbutton his pajama top.

She was in the bed as she imagined, with the man she imagined. But this was not imagination. The man against her lips and under her hands and then beneath her hips was real, fully real.

Falling, not alone.

Indoor fireworks.

Ovation.

Encore.

* * *

A/N: White singing Scarlet Ribbons is worth a trip to YouTube.

Although the number of views has continued to climb steeply, reviews have fallen off steeply. If you want more of Hotel Detective, you need to speak up. If the story doesn't move anyone to comment, there's no reason for me to go on posting it.

Thoughts?


	8. Afterthoughts?

A/N: The morning after.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Eight: Afterthoughts?

* * *

Sunday, November 7, 1965

* * *

Sarah awoke. Mostly, she awoke.

Five-eighths awake.

_Delicious._

She slowly ran the bare foot of one leg up the calf and to the knee of the other. Languorously, she stretched.

_Delicious. Utterly delicious. _

She felt joy — deep and vague and all-encompassing. And then she laughed, ebullient and sleepy all at once. Utterly at her ease. Not alone, naked, but not exposed.

_De — li — cious._

Images cascaded into her mind. Chuck's naked body joined to hers. Rolling, shifting, rearranging, but always to the same end. _Delicious. Utterly delicious. _

She thought about that Rolling Stones song and laughed again. _Satisfaction. _

She slowly ran her bare foot back down her leg. She reached out for Chuck. The joy she felt was no longer vague, sleepy, but precise — she knew it and knew its source: Chuck.

Except Chuck was not there. His side of the bed was empty. Sarah moved her hand about for a second before she turned her head. But her eyes confirmed her hand. Chuck was not there.

She felt a split second of panic. Nine-eighths awake.

Then she saw the note. On his pillow. A sheet of Palmer House stationary.

* * *

_S,_

_Stay. Please don't leave. I've gone to _Patel's_. Cake donuts and coffee on the way! We need to talk. _

_C_

* * *

She read the note again, chuckling for a second at her panic until it rose again: "We need to talk." Yes, they did.

Sarah sat up, pulling the blanket with her and adjusting the pillow behind her. She wanted to know what was going on with Chuck. But she needed to tell him what was going on with her.

_What is going on with me? What have I done?_

But even as she asked the question and struggled to answer it, the joy returned. And then she knew that _it _was her answer.

For the first time in her life, she had done what her heart wanted. Her father had rendered that organ strange to her, it's language foreign The Farm, Joad, had practically silenced it. She had become a woman all head and no heart. The organ was there, in its place, but hardened into a tablet of stone, no longer a human heart.

But it had become enfleshed again and taken her flesh, and it had spoken, found its voice. Not just in its thump-thump-thumping all night with Chuck, her heart so alive in her that she cried out for the sheer thrill of it — no, it had been speaking since she turned to him in _Patel's_, speaking not in tongues but in images.

The fall before the fall. But last night was the fall. This morning was officially the moment after a moment-too-late. She gently smoothed the sheet where Chuck had slept beside her.

She was on his side now.

But she had told Casey she was a 'double-agent'. And then she had taken the elevator to Chuck's bed.

_What was I doing? — I knew what I was doing. But how can I explain it to Chuck? It's going to look like I was on a mission and he was my mark, as if I slept with him to oblige him, to encourage him, anyway, to tell me what is going on. But that is not true. _

She would do everything in her power to protect the Palmer House, to solve the Tomek murder if the FBI or the police didn't beat her to it. But she was also going to protect Chuck. Her heart told her the two things were compatible, even complementary.

Her head was still naggingly, distantly unsure, but her tingling had stopped.

Sarah picked up her glasses from the nightstand on her side of the bed. She did not need them, of course, the lenses non-prescription, but she was used to wearing them. She took a deep breath as she slipped them on.

_The truth was that I wanted to be with Chuck. That I want to be with Chuck. That my heart insists that he is innocent. I took a leap of faith all the way into Chuck's bed. I think I had decided on the dance floor, despite our parting after the dance. I decided when I said _yes, _when I said _yes _to Chuck asking me to dance. I said _yes _to that — and to so much more._

_Yes. Yes — and the tingling stopped, has stopped._

She closed her eyes and relaxed. She leaned back against her pillow and ran her foot up her leg again. Images of last night filled her. There would be time to figure this all out, sort it. Carina was right, this was Sarah's first time. All of last night had been a strange combination of beginner's mistakes and beginner's luck. Lucky.

For the first time, Sarah felt entirely like a real girl, despite her lingering self-division, her head footdragging as her heart skipped along. Still, she felt like a real girl, fully real, as Chuck had been last night and was this morning. And would be again, as soon as she got her hands on him.

She looked at the clock. 8:12 am. She was hungry. For a donut, yes, but mainly for Chuck. She was not looking forward to the talk, but she was not going to lose faith now, stop leaping, stop listening to her heart, beginner or not.

* * *

At 8: 30, Sarah began to wonder.

At 8: 40 she began to worry.

At 8:45, she got up and dressed hurriedly. She left the room and took the elevator to the lobby.

Shift-change, Morgan relieving Robert. Sarah realized she was in the clothes she wore the night before. Both men would know. But neither had seen her. Nothing to do but to face it. She took a breath, about to take a step when she heard a voice.

"Sarah, I'm sorry."

Sarah turned to find Lousia beside her.

"Sorry, Louisa," she asked, "whatever for?"

"That guest, Mr. Bartowski. He saw me a while ago. I was on the elevator. He was whistling, happy, dressed to go outside. He saw my uniform and he got a funny look on his face. He asked me if you were working later today. I told him that the hotel detective on duty now was Holbert and that you wouldn't be back at work until tomorrow. Monday. Then I realized what I had done. What I said. I just forgot you were under a flag. I spoiled it."

Sarah felt her chest constrict; it became hard to breathe. "And then what happened?" Sarah forced the question out, barely enough breath available to be audible.

Louisa grimaced. "Then he got a _different_ funny look on his face. He didn't say anything, he just got off the elevator."

"Where did he go?"

Louisa shrugged. "I don't know. He got off with me on the third floor, then he seemed to realize that he had pushed the lobby button. I went on to the housekeeper's room. He went down the stairs, I think."

_Shit. Shit. No, he can't have found out like that. Where's he gone?_

Louisa looked pitiful. "I'm sorry, Sarah. The murder, the questions...my husband's sick at home. I just didn't...think."

"Don't worry about it. I have to go." Sarah turned and walked quickly to the desk. Morgan was asking Robert something about an entry in the guestbook.

"Hey, did either of you see Chuck Bartowski this morning?"

They both looked at her, then at each other, then at her.

"No," Morgan said, shrugging his shoulders.

"No," Robert said, checking his watch.

"Damn," Sarah said, stomping her foot.

Robert and Morgan looked at her then at each other.

Sarah hurried away from the front desk, down the hallway, into the basement. She unlocked the office. Holbert had left a cindery snow puddle on her desk, but she did not bother with it. She grabbed her coat and scarf and headed out of the hotel.

Her hands were shaky as she buttoned the coat in the stiff, cold wind. The sun was up but it was brutally cold. She almost ran the distance to _Patel's_, bursting through the door when she arrived. The Sunday crowd was late-arriving. The cold likely explained that. The counter was half-full. Others were scattered among the tables.

None were Chuck.

Lester came out of the kitchen and saw her. He smiled and waved. "Sarah! On a Sunday! I think I have a cake donut left."

Sarah did not wave in response. "Lester, was the man who was here Friday morning, who sat with me at the counter — tall, wavy hair — was he here this morning, in the last hour or so?"

Lester frowned. "Um, the man...in the trench coat?"

"Yes," Sarah said, hope rising.

"No," Lester reported, his frown deepening.

Sarah went out the door, hurrying back to the Palmer House. She went in the main entrance, across the lobby, and to the elevator.

She got off on the eighth floor and ran down the empty hallway to Chuck's room. She skeleton-keyed the lock. "Chuck?"

No answer. She checked the bathroom. He was not there. Everything was as she had left it, the mussed bed, Chuck's note resting on it.

_Psycho-Cybernetics_ was on Chuck's nightstand. She opened the closet. The suitcase was there. But so was the navy suit, the monkey suit. It was wrapped in plastic, freshly dry-cleaned.

His things were still there, but Chuck was gone.

* * *

Sarah paced the floor of 843, waiting.

10:00 am arrived but Chuck did not. Sarah was beginning to go a little crazy. She was about to leave again, to check downstairs, maybe go back to _Patel's_, when the phone rang in the room.

Sarah snatched it up. "Chuck?"

There was a moment of silence, then Morgan's voice, quiet. "Um, no, Sarah, this is Morgan." His voice then became louder, business-like. "Is Chuck Bartowski in his room? Is this Sarah of housekeeping?" Morgan waited.

"Morgan, Chuck's not here. What's going on?"

Morgan continued in his business-like tone. "Oh, so he has stepped out? Well, there is a new guest here who wants to talk to him. I will leave him a note here, perhaps you could leave one there?"

A woman? "Morgan, who is it?"

Sarah heard muffled voices, then: "It's Eleanor Mills."

"Okay, Morgan. I will be down in a minute, and I'm no longer under a flag. Just pretend there is a Sarah in housekeeping. What room is Miss Mills in?"

"Mrs. Mills is in Room 845."

"Alright. Keep her at the desk for a minute until I can clear out of Chuck's room, Morgan. Be sure you get all her information, address and so on."

Morgan's voice dropped again. "All? She's a looker."

"No _figures_, Morgan," Sarah whispered fiercely, too fiercely.

"Just kidding, Sarah. Mrs. Mills has stepped away from the desk, by the way. She's talking with Norbert Davis."

"I'm coming down." Sarah hung up the phone and left the room.

* * *

Sarah got off the elevator and angled across the lobby away from the front desk. A woman was standing near the desk, chatting with Norbert Davis. Davis was enraptured.

The woman was tall, almost as tall as Sarah. She was beautiful, with long, dark brown hair and large, light brown eyes. Her smile was warm, stunning. She was not dressed in any showy way, but her clothes, Sarah's practiced, detective's eyes knew, were very expensive, as was the leather luggage near her feet.

Sarah felt a cold spike of jealousy. She changed her direction so that she would pass near them. Norbert Davis was facing the woman, his back to Sarah. As she got near, she could hear the conversation.

"So, you are Chuck's sister? He's told me about you a little."

"You can't quite believe Chuck. He's _severely_ hyperbolic."

Davis chuckled. "That's funny. But about you, Mrs. Mills, he did not exaggerate."

"Call me Ellie, Mr. Davis."

_Eleanor_. _Ellie. Widow of...Sarah tried to remember, did...Aidan Mills. _Sarah stopped and turned. She would wait to meet Ellie when Davis was not there to complicate things. He had been introduced to her when she was under the flag, wearing a maid's uniform. She would straighten that out with him soon, but not now, in front of Ellie.

As Sarah turned, she saw Holbert looking at her. She nodded discreetly and went down the hallway, down to her office. She phoned Morgan.

"Morgan, ring me in my office when Mrs. Mills goes up to her room. And ring me immediately if you see Chuck Bartowski."

_Surely Chuck must have known Ellie would arrive today. He won't stay away for too long, no matter how angry with me he is. _

Sarah sat at the desk, drumming her fingers, first slow, then fast. She wanted to talk to Chuck, to explain. Her chest still felt tight, as it had since the talk with Louisa.

_Damn it, Louisa._ But Sarah knew how hard it was to keep a secret generally, much less in a crowded hotel, where people were focused on their own jobs, their own problems.

The phone rang.

She stabbed it immediately, brought it to her ear. "Morgan?"

"No, Sarah, this is Carina. I thought I'd call you. I figured you'd have come home by now, to share all the...details with me. I told you — the fall before the fall. But we're past that now, aren't we?"

"How do you know that, Carina?"

"I saw you dancing with him. Never seen you like that, Sarah. Lost in a moment, unaware of anything but the man against you. And you two surely were _against_ each other. So, how was it?"

Sarah did not want to answer. But she did. "Not it. He. He was delicious. Better than I could have imagined. So wonderful. But, Carina, he's gone."

"What? He had to leave town? Already?"

"No. He...he got up this morning to get us breakfast and one of the maids slipped and told him I am the house detective. He hasn't come back."

"Wait, wait. So you..._you know-ed_ him but didn't work out any of the...stuff between you? You didn't tell him about you? He didn't tell you about him?"

"We didn't talk much, Carina. At least not in complete sentences. Isolated nouns. Verbs." Sarah reddened though alone in the office. "Lots of our names and..._verbs_."

Carina giggled. "Sorry, girl, I just... Well, I can imagine."

"Don't, Carina. What do I do?"

"I don't know. I'm no hotel detective. I'm not working for that Casey guy. I've not fallen for Chuck. But I'm guessing the truism is true here: honesty makes the heart grow fonder."

"That's not the truism, Carina."

"No," Carina asked, her voice arch, "I could've sworn it was?"

Sarah laughed and the tightness in her chest relaxed. "Thanks, Carina. I needed that."

"My pleasure. Now straighten things up with your tall man and come home and give me details, lots of details. It's been a while; I need them. Hell, Morgan looked a little tempting last night."

"He'd gladly be your virgin sacrifice."

Carina laughed. "Way to _not_ sell it, _Ah Peku_."

"Who's that, Carina?"

"Mayan priest I read about in _National Geographic. _Ritual sacrificer."

"You have an odd mind, Carina Miller."

"It's the cherry atop the soft-serve sundae of my body."

"I'm not even going to try to understand that."

Carina verbally shrugged, a humming sound. "Sometimes my metaphors get ahead of my brain. — I hope Chuck shows soon, Sarah. And that you two can work this out. Fingers crossed."

"Thanks, bye."

She hung up the phone. She looked at it for a moment. Carina really had changed since Doug. And there were signs that she was getting on with her life. Sarah wondered if the changes were permanent.

The phone rang again as Sarah stared at it. She jumped.

"Hello?"

"Morgan, Sarah. Eleanor Mills has gone up to her room. We got it ready early for her. Quite a tipper, too."

"She's Chuck Bartowski's sister."

"I know. I wondered what she and Davis were talking about but there were folks at the desk. But then she asked me about Chuck. She expected him to be here to meet her."

"You haven't seen Chuck?"

"No."

"I'm going to go up to Mrs. Mills' room. Call if Chuck comes in."

"Are you on the clock, Sarah? Casey didn't leave me a note, saying."

"No, personal time today. I'm not under a flag anymore, Morgan. Pass the word."

"Geez," Morgan whined, "I don't know how you keep this all straight, who you are, who you aren't."

_It's not easy for me, either, Morgan._ "Just remember, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

It was after 11:00 am when Sarah knocked on Eleanor Mills' door. She heard a sound on the other side of the door, then saw the peephole go dark and then back to light.

"Yes?" The door was still closed.

"Mrs. Mills? I'm Sarah Walker, and I'm a hotel detective here. Could I talk with you for a couple of minutes?"

"A female house detective?"

"Yes."

The door opened. "Good for the Palmer House." Eleanor smiled. "Come in. And call me Ellie. What do you need to speak to me about?"

"Well, two things. First, do you have any valuables that we need to know about, work to protect? Jewelry, perhaps?"

Ellie sat down on a delicate French love seat. She had a suite, one of the finest rooms in the hotel, and the two women were in the living room of the suite. Sarah sat down in a matching armchair.

"To tell the truth, I'm not much for jewelry. I have a few pieces with me but nothing worth any especially noteworthy sum. I'm really not here to see and be seen, not here for parties. I'm actually here to see my brother. To see _about_ my brother."

Ellie's eyes took on something of the look of Chuck's when Sarah found him hard to read. Sarah had come in hoping to figure out what to say on the spot, but she boggled. Ellie looked at her for a moment.

"Your brother?" Sarah finally asked.

"Yes, his name is Bartowski. That was my maiden name. Chuck Bartowski. He's staying here, in the next room down, as a matter of fact. But he is missing. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes, Ellie, I do. We've...met."

Ellie took another look at Sarah. "Oh, good. Do you have any idea where he's disappeared to?"

"No, I don't. Actually, I would like to find him myself."

Ellie's eyes darkened. "Why is that?"

"Well, to be honest, we had coffee together the other day, and I...really enjoyed it. But I didn't tell him I was a hotel detective here. He got it in his head I was part of the housekeeping staff…"

"And you didn't want to intimidate him with your actual job?"

Sarah shrugged. "Something like that."

"Well, Sarah," Ellie laughed, "although I understand, you played that record backward. My brother would find what you do attractive, not unattractive." Ellie paused, thinking, but she did not share her thoughts with Sarah. "Don't be afraid to come clean."

"I will, as soon as I find him. If he shows up, and I haven't seen him, tell him to find me, please. You see, the situation is more complicated than I let on. He talked to one of the housekeepers about me and she told him that I was a hotel detective. I'm afraid he's angry."

Ellie leaned a little toward Sarah. "You seem to be rather invested for someone who just shared a cup of coffee with my brother. You must have really...enjoyed it." Ellie sat back, eyeing Sarah, the hint of a smile in one corner of Ellie's mouth. "Hmmm. Well, yes, I will send him to you as soon as I've hugged his neck, and he and I have had a chance to talk. — So was there really another _second_ thing you needed to talk about, or did we just talk about it?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, we just talked about it."

Ellie stood and so did Sarah. Ellie put out her hand and Sarah shook it. As they shook, Ellie gave Sarah an inscrutable look. "You must be a remarkable woman, Sarah Walker, if you attracted my brother's attention now, of all times."

Sarah wanted to ask what that meant but decided to take what she had gotten. Maybe Chuck would show up soon and they could talk.

Chuck was mixed up in something, somehow, and, evidently, Ellie knew it.

_But what? What's going on? — I have faith, Chuck._

* * *

Sarah knocked softly on Chuck's door after Ellie's closed. No answer. Checking that no one was watching, she used her skeleton key again.

The room looked the same. Chuck was not in it. She picked up Chuck's note and turned it over. She grabbed a pen from off the desk in the room.

* * *

_C,_

_I ran into Louisa after you did. I'm sorry. I can explain. Please call me. Just call the desk and ask for me. If I am not in the hotel, call me at my apartment. My home phone is 555-0100. _

_Last night was wonderful. You are wonderful._

_S_

* * *

Sarah grabbed her coat and scarf.

Restless and increasingly anxious, unhappy, Sarah left Chuck's room and descended to the basement and then out of the hotel. She walked to _Patel's_ and endured Lester for a bowl of chili. _To go_. She walked quickly back to the hotel, to her office.

She sat down and took the plastic lid off the styrofoam bowl, unwrapping the spork that was also in the to-go bag. Her hands were shaking.

She made herself eat some of the chili. It was good but she wasn't.

She didn't finish it. She pushed the bowl away. _Maybe I should talk to Ellie again, tell her everything. See if she will tell me anything._

The phone rang and Sarah jumped again. "Hello?"

"Sarah, there's a man at the front desk, courier service," Morgan was whispering again, "he claims Chuck Bartowski sent him to collect his luggage and things. He has a note, giving him permission. The signature looks legit, like the one in the guest register. Chuck's changing hotels, the man says. But Chuck is paid up for several nights yet. His sister thinks he will meet her here. — What am I supposed to do?"

"Delay him, Morgan. Give me time to get upstairs before he does. Are there empty rooms up there?"

"Yeah, I think so...Room 839, a couple of doors down."

"Give me five minutes." Sarah slammed the phone down and ran down the hallway toward the elevator.

* * *

A/N: Any afterthoughts of your own?


	9. Toots and the Ladies Man

A/N: More story. We are closing in on the end of the first arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Nine: Toots and the Ladies Man

* * *

The elevator doors parted just after Sarah hit the _Up_ button. Lucky.

She still had her coat and scarf on — she had been eating while wearing them — and they felt too warm after her sprint to the elevator. She loosened the scarf.

Her fists clenched and unclenched as the elevator climbed, slothlike, toward the eighth floor. When the doors opened, Sarah stood back, checking what she could see of the hallway. It was empty.

She got out and, half-running, made her way to Room 839. She turned before she unlocked the door. The sightline was good. She could easily see 843, Chuck's door. She used her skeleton key to enter the room, then shut the door almost closed, but not allowing it to latch.

Trying to slow her breathing, she listened for the courier, shutting her eyes.

_What are you doing, Sarah? You barely know Chuck. — I know enough. — A cake donut and an apple fritter do not make a lifetime. You've never slept with a man so quickly, never felt so sure of anyone in your life. — Because Dad and Joad trained me not to feel, and because, before, I had not met Chuck. I am sure. — Are you? — I am._

She was way, way out on a tightrope now and she knew it.

Her heart and her livelihood were both suspended on a narrow rope high above the netless ground.

But she held onto her memory of the night before, using it to balance herself. She was not wrong about the man who had made love to her, cradled her in his arms, kissed up and down the length of her, whispered such sweet things to her.

The elevator arrived on the floor. She moved to the door, leaving it shut as she listened. Heavy tread. She heard the jingle of keys and cracked the door.

A man she had never seen before was turning a key in Chuck's door. Sarah tingled.

He was wearing a dark gray jumpsuit under a blanket-lined denim jacket. He had on thick-soled work boots. Glancing around, frowning, he pushed 843 open. As he did, he turned his back to Sarah for a moment, and she saw the words, _Moe's Uptown Delivery_, stenciled onto the jacket. The man entered the room and then shut the door.

Sarah closed her eyes, carefully filing the man in her memory. The tingle continued. _Moe's. _Why did she know that name? She could not recall the Palmer House using the company, so she did not think that was the reason for its familiarity. _Moe's? _It was possible that she had seen trucks with the name on them, or other couriers wearing the jacket.

But the more she concentrated, the more the tingle grew. But she could not determine how she knew the name.

She walked softly to the desk in 839 and called downstairs. "Morgan, Sarah. The courier is in Chuck's room. Where's the truck?"

"Just outside the main lobby entrance. If Casey sees it, he'll be pissed."

"Is Casey here?"

"Yeah, just arrived. But he went up to see…" Morgan's voice dropped, "...the FBI lady."

"Get the license number and any other numbers you see on that truck, Morgan. I will be down in a moment. Make sure you take your time checking the courier's note. Make sure he's taking only what was listed. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, sure. Say, do you think one day I could be a hotel detective too?"

"We'll see. I aim to follow the truck when the man leaves. Tell Casey I am out of the hotel but working, working on the Tomek murder."

"Do you think Chuck is involved?"

Sarah sighed. "I do. But not the way you think. It's complicated. I don't think he's dangerous any longer." She could feel Chuck's hands caressing her. Memory. She shook her head. "Be down in a second."

She hung up the phone and left the room, locking it behind her. She took her time. She looked like a guest and she was sure she had never seen the courier before. 843 was still closed.

She got on the elevator, turning to look at 843 as the elevator doors closed.

Sarah walked across the lobby after leaving the elevator. Holbert peeked at her over his newspaper, gave her a puzzled look, then retreated behind it again. Morgan circled the desk and, as Sarah passed, unobtrusively held out a small piece of paper. Sarah took it as she passed, the movement all but undetectable. It all felt very CIA to Sarah, except it was all happening under the vaulted, mural-covered ceiling of the lobby, and she was on a mission for the sake of her heart, instead of a mission that denied her heart.

She walked out into the cold and tightened her scarf. She waved at one of the Checker cabs, lined up next to the street. The driver saw her and pulled forward.

Sarah got in the back. The driver looked at her and smiled. "Where to, Toots?"

"Nowhere, yet. And if you call me 'Toots' again, I'll smack you all the way into Lake Michigan."

He shrank from Sarah's frozen blue glare. "Sure, sure, sister...I mean, Ma'am." The driver faced forward.

They sat in tense silence for a few minutes, and then the courier came out, Morgan tagging along behind, talking, gesticulating, keeping the courier focused on him. The courier had Chuck's large suitcase in one hand, the dry-cleaned navy suit over his shoulder, and a hotel courtesy bag that looked like it contained the items from Chuck's bathroom and Chuck's self-help book. Maltz. Sarah was almost as curious about that book as anything else. The man who she made love to last night did not seem to be in need of self-help books.

The courier opened the back of his small truck and loaded the items inside. He handed Morgan a piece of paper and Morgan looked at it, then at the items, checking.

He nodded and signed the paper. The man took it from Morgan and went to the cab of the truck.

Morgan turned and winked at Sarah as he walked back into the hotel. _What do you know, he actually did it. Morgan. _

"Look, we're going to follow that truck. Don't get too close. Listen to me for instructions. When it stops, go by and let me out at the next available corner."

Sarah fished some folded bills out of her pocket and dropped at ten on the seat. "Five more if I'm happy."

The driver nodded and sat up, intent on the truck. It pulled away. Sarah watched it enter traffic, then spoke. "Okay. Don't lose that truck."

She looked at the note that Morgan gave her. It had the license number of the truck, its company number, and a description of color, dents, and other details. _Very thorough. _It was an insurance policy in case she lost the truck in traffic.

The driver turned out to be better than his language suggested. He kept the truck in sight effortlessly. The truck drove for several miles. Then it pulled into an underground garage, the opening to the garage beneath a white sign that read _Moe's Uptown Delivery. _

The driver passed the garage but stopped at the next corner. Sarah dropped a five on the seat. "Thanks, Toots!"

"Hey!" The driver yelled, but Sarah was out of the taxi and walking back toward the garage.

She had no weapon with her. She had left her gun at the apartment, not expecting the evening of blues to become all that it had become. It began to snow again, thick and heavy.

She studied the garage entrance as she reached it. No one was seated in the glass cubicle near the entrance. She turned into the darkened opening, walking as silently as possible.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted. After a moment, she could see better, and, after another moment, she saw the truck. It was parked near a loading dock. Everything in the garage was silent, although street noise from outside echoed around, the sounds muted, distended.

Sarah heard voices and she ducked behind a blue and white VW van. The driver walked out, talking back over his shoulder to someone still enshadowed in the back of the loading dock.

"So, I got what you told me to get. Everything in the room. Oh, and there was this note on the bed."

"Let me see," the other man said as he stepped into the brighter-but-still dim light of the front of the loading dock.

Sarah's mouth fell open. She knew the voice and, of course, knew the face. Bryce Larkin.

He took the note and his neon white smile split the gloom of the garage. "Huh. 'C' is Bartowski. But who is 'S'?"

Bryce turned the note over. He stared at the page. "S's handwriting actually looks kind of familiar. Don't know... You say no one else was in the room?"

"Nope, no one."

"And nothing that looked like it might belong to a woman."

"Just the self-help book."

Bryce gave the courier a puzzled look. "You'll have to show me. So, unload all the stuff and bring it inside. He's going to want it all."

"Okay. It won't take but a minute. Can I quit for lunch once it is done?"

"Soon. I'll order us something in a bit."

Bryce had been holding the note at his side. He looked at it again, still puzzled. "'S'? Does it seem likely to you that Bartowski would have a lover, this fast, already? He hasn't been in Chicago long."

The courier laughed. "You're the ladies man, Larkin. That guy's just a lady."

Bryce joined in the courier's laugh as he walked into the darkness of the loading dock. Sarah heard a door open and close, and Bryce's laughter became inaudible.

The driver opened up the rear and began to unload Chuck's things. Sarah crouched down, thinking.

_Bryce Larkin? How is he involved in this? _

And then she tingled again. Bryce had been in _Patel's _before Chuck showed up. Maybe that had not been a coincidence. But Chuck did not know Bryce, did he? Bryce was not normally in that part of town at that time of day.

_Why_ _had he been there?_

Sarah had become so quickly engrossed in Chuck that day — was it really only two days ago? — that she hadn't paid much attention to Bryce. She had seen him stop outside _Patel's_, to light a cigarette. _A Marlboro red, his brand_. _He thinks __he's the Marlboro man. _She had not thought about it, but as she remembered it, Bryce had looked inside for a moment while he lit the cigarette. Not at Sarah. At Chuck. It had not struck Sarah at the time.

_Moe's_! And then Sarah remembered: _Moe's _was the company that Bryce used a few times for courier services. She had seen the company name on invoices when she worked for Bryce. In passing, he had once mentioned knowing the owner.

Sarah rose up to peer through the VW's windows at the _Moe's _truck. The courier had unloaded it. She heard another voice, a man coming down into the garage along the same path Sarah had used. She crouched down. He passed. She got a quick glimpse of him. He was in a Moe's jumpsuit too. He had a clipboard in one hand.

"Hey! Hey! Is that the stuff from the Palmer House?"

The courier answered. "Yeah, this is it. I was just about to lug it inside."

"Okay, here you go." Sarah, peeking again, stiffened.

The new man had handed the courier a pistol. "Keep this. Once you get the stuff inside, relieve Murphy and Jeb. Bartowski is about to talk them to death. Love troubles. Who tells their captors about love troubles?"

The courier shook his head. "A lady."

He put the pistol in the pocket of his denim jacket. "Oh," he said, reminding himself, "I picked up some peppermints..._for her…._they're in the cab." The courier went to the passenger side of the cab and opened the door, reached in, and retrieved a small brown paper bag.

He shoved it in his other jacket pocket.

He picked up Chuck's things and put them up on the loading dock. He climbed the small set of stairs on the loading dock's corner, then picked up the things again and walked into the darkness. "Ouch!"

The new man, who had been making notes on the clipboard, looked up. "What is it?"

"Stubbed my toe on that damn rise beneath the door."

"How can a man stub his toe wearing steel-toed boots, huh?"

The courier's voice came from the dark, whiny. "I don't know."

The other man shook his head and then muttered to himself, just loud enough for Sarah to hear it. "Talk about a lady."

The new man turned and started back up toward the street. Sarah crouched down again and the man passed by without looking in her direction. She was almost certain he was headed for the glass cubicle at the entrance.

She looked up and outside. The snow was falling faster, the sky darker than before. She crouched again.

_A plan, I need a plan. They are holding Chuck here. He is not here of his own free will. And, goddamn it, Larkin is part of this. I knew there was a reason I hated his hands on me. Chuck the lady and Bryce the ladies man? Hardly. _

She couldn't keep last night from her mind and smirked to herself for a second. But then her expression hardened, her blue eyes cooled, solidified, behind her glasses.

She stood up and unbuttoned her coat. She undid the top buttons of her blue blouse, just enough for her cleavage to begin to be visible. She ran her hands through her hair and took off her glasses, putting them in an interior pocket of her coat.

She did not intend to flirt her way into the building, but she needed to be able to fall back on that, especially since she had no weapon. A rough-and-ready plan had formed in her mind.

After a few cold moments, the wind from the street whipping into the garage, and whipping around Sarah as she crouched by the van, two men came out onto the loading dock. One tossed a set of keys to the other.

The one who caught the keys jumped off the loading dock. The other, the tosser, took the stairs. They got in the truck and pulled away, turning on the truck's headlights better to see in the garage gloom.

Sarah rose as the truck went deeper into the garage. She ran to the loading dock and leaped, sure and graceful, up onto it. She stayed low to the ground and ran toward the back of the dock. Boxes and tools were stacked there. To the side was a heavy metal door. Sarah tried it and breathed out softly when it opened. She stepped up into the doorway, careful not to trip as the courier had.

She was in a hallway. At the end were two doors, one on the hallway's side, the other on the end. Taking a moment to collect herself, Sarah worked one soft step at a time down the hallway, her Farm-best skills working immediately and seamlessly. Step. Step. Step.

"So, did you bring me my peppermints?" Sarah stopped. Chuck's voice, from the side door. She was not far from it. Step.

"Goddamn it. Yes, what are you, _eight_?" The courier.

"No, I seem to have developed an ulcer. Peppermints help. Say, you don't have any Pepto-Bismol, do you?"

"God, no. That shit's foul. It's like peppermint ice cream's runny evil twin."

"Huh," Chuck mused, "never thought about it like that. But I take it medicinally, not over ice."

Sarah smiled despite everything. Then she heard Bryce, muffled. His voice was coming from behind the door at the end of the hallway.

"You tell me what to do." Silence. "Well, we can't make a mistake. It'd be the end for us." Silence. Sarah realized Bryce was on the phone. She caught a whiff of Marlboro smoke. "He had a tape recorder as you thought. He'd built the damn thing himself, I think. Tape's blank."

Sarah could not afford the time to keep listening.

She stepped to the side door. Chuck was tabulating the merits of flavors of ice cream, and growing rhapsodic about Rocky Road. Sarah twisted the knob slowly, ever so slowly. It was unlocked. Gathering herself, she opened the door inch-by-inch, praying the hinges stayed quiet. They did. The door was open.

Chuck looked up and saw her but he managed not to register the fact. Instead, after a few seconds, he shifted suddenly in his seat, making the courier, seated across the small table from him, tense up, attend to Chuck.

Sarah crossed the distance to the man in one large stride and put her arm around his neck, hammering his vagus nerve with a blinding, violent downstroke. He slumped in his chair, unconscious. Sarah let go of him once she was sure he was out, and sure he was not going to fall from the chair.

She looked at Chuck, letting the warmth flood back into her eyes. He stared at her, his look part disbelief and part relief.

"Hello, Detective Walker," he whispered, his unreadable expression overtaking his face.

_Shit. _She put her finger on her lips and gestured for him to follow her.

He got up, grabbed the bag of peppermints, and came around the table. Sarah looked out into the hallway, both directions. Bryce was still talking on the phone. No one was in sight.

She extended her hand behind her to Chuck but no one took it. She turned. He looked at her and then at her hand but made no move to take it. _Shit. _Sarah turned and started down the hall. To her relief, Chuck followed. They reached the metal door that led out onto the loading dock.

Sarah pushed it open and stepped down. _We're going to make it. _But then Chuck misjudged the doorway's step down as the courier had misjudged the step up.

He tripped behind Sarah, and the bag of peppermints flew from his hand and burst on the loading dock, snowing indoors, the sound louder than it should have been, echoing.

Sarah turned and shut the door, grabbing a crowbar that was nearby and jamming it under the door. It would hold for a minute or two. Chuck was getting up. She grabbed Chuck's hand, pulling him the rest of the way up and then pulling him behind her.

She heard steps running down into the garage. The new man. Sarah grabbed a large wrench and pulled Chuck out into the brighter light of the garage. The new man had just become visible.

Sarah threw the wrench and it hit him in the forehead. He went down in immediate, shapeless collapse as if magically an invertebrate. Behind her, she heard Chuck whisper: "Damn!"

Someone was beating on the door at the back of the loading dock. Sarah pulled Chuck up and out of the garage. She ran into the street, into the fast-falling snow, forcing a cab to stop.

Sarah opened the rear door and hustled Chuck inside, then she got in after him, slamming the door.

"Drive!" Sarah yelled.

"Sure," the driver responded, gunned the accelerator.

* * *

They had made it. As far as Sarah knew, Bryce had not seen her, and neither had the courier. She thought it unlikely the new man had gotten a clear look.

She turned to Chuck. She was still holding him by the hand she'd used to pull him to safety. "Chuck, are you okay?"

He looked at her for a minute, then shrugged. "Yes, and...thanks. I'm lucky...you're so good at your _job_..."

He turned toward the window and looked out.

Sarah slumped in the seat. She saw the driver regard them both in the rearview mirror.

The talk was going to be much harder than she had believed it would be that morning, and they couldn't have it there in the taxi. They needed a place to talk, and it could not be at the hotel or near it. The talk could not wait until they got to her apartment.

Sarah put her hands on the back of the front seat, spoke to the driver. "Take us to the nearest of those new donut places, the ones that just opened...Dunkin Donuts."

The driver nodded. "Those places have some serious coffee, real cream…"

"Is there one nearby?"

The driver nodded again.

Sarah leaned back and turned to Chuck. He was still staring out the window. He glanced at her and then quickly away. Sarah took a breath. _At least he's safe — for now. _

A couple of minutes later the driver stopped the car. "Dunkin' Donuts, folks."

_Time to talk._

Sarah's hands were shaking again.

In her CIA life, Sarah never got nervous, never had butterflies.

As she got out of the taxi in front of the Dunkin Donuts, butterflies, a kaleidoscope of monarchs, tawny-orange and black, flut-flut-fluttered among the flakes of falling white snow.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?


	10. French Cruller

A/N: Some revelations. Some, not all, questions answered.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Ten: French Cruller

* * *

Sunday, November 7, 1965

* * *

Sarah stood inside the Dunkin Donuts — it was all metal-gleaming and orange and magenta and brown and white, a strangely muted rainbow.

Like the other Dunkin Donuts in Chicago, it was brand new. The windows were fogged up, the bakery-heated, damp air condensing on the cold glass panes.

The butterflies had followed Sarah inside, their tawny-orange jostling with the Dunkin Donuts orange.

A short man with a round face and square glasses stood behind the counter, only his ruddy face visible above the white cash register. Sarah instantly recalled Carina's oddball comment about Carina's head being the cherry on the soft-serve sundae of Carina's body. — Just so, Register Man.

Behind Register Man stood a Wall of Donuts.

The aroma of coffee, indescribably perfect, omnipresent, filled the air but occupied no space.

Sarah turned to Chuck. He gave her a neutral look, then gestured to the booths. "Please, find us a spot. I'll get us something. Um, complete my morning errand." His voice was thick, slightly hoarse.

Sarah chose a corner booth and slid all the way inside. Chuck stood at the counter, talking softly with Register Man, gesturing at the Wall of Donuts. Sarah slipped off her scarf and coat. She bit her lips and smoothed her hair. She felt trembly but not from the cold.

Chuck came to the booth carrying a dark brown tray. He put it down. Two towering coffees stood on it, with small creamers prayerfully gathered around the towers' bottoms. On a plate was a plain cake donut, an apple fritter, and a donut Sarah did not recognize.

She pointed to it. "What's that?"

Chuck shrugged. "_French cruller_, the guy called it. Looked like the right one to add. _Twisty_."

Chuck sat down across the booth from Sarah and slid inside. He took one of the coffees, removed the lid, then held it up, blowing across its steaming top. Sarah imitated him. Each took a sip at the same time.

Chuck took another sip. "Hey, that driver was right. That's good; it's serious coffee. Better than _Patel's._"

Sarah nodded, glad for the small talk, a prelude to the big talk.

Chuck unwrapped the plastic ware and cut each of the three donuts in half, three halves on Sarah's side of the plate, three on his.

Sarah picked up her half of the cruller and took a bite. It was good, much like a sweetened croissant. Without thinking, she commented: "Tastes like sugary Paris."

Chuck looked at her flatly. "Have you been to Paris?"

Sarah shrugged, unsure how to answer because unsure which corner of her story to pick up first, how to tell it.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked as her answer.

"Yes, I am, thanks to you. And I do thank you. That was all..._really_ impressive. Like movie stunt-work impressive, but real. Still, I suppose you would have to be impressive to earn a spot as hotel detective at a place like the Palmer House."

He took a bite of his half of the cruller but did not comment further, waiting for her to respond, his eyes, guarded, hoping for her to say something, the right thing. She wanted to be better at talking.

"Chuck," Sarah offered softly, "I know I haven't been straight with you…"

"And I haven't been forthcoming with you…" He ducked his head.

"No, you haven't. But I am sorry, sorry for deceiving you. I just…"

Chuck waved his hand, the remnant of his half of the cruller in it. "I shouldn't have...you know, _last night_, since I hadn't told you, but I woke up and you were standing there, like that, everything I ever imagined, ever, everything, and I…"

"Chuck, I was not _doing my job_ last night. Please believe me. Everything's gotten tangled up, and a lot of it is my fault, but...last night...that was Sarah, the woman, in your bed, not Sarah, the detective."

Chuck stared at her as her words sank in. His gaze warmed. She saw Chuck's eyes move to her lips, then down to her still partially unbuttoned blouse.

He flicked his eyes back up to hers. "And I was going to tell you this morning, everything I could, but…"

They sat for a moment, each nibbling his or her half of the cruller, unfinished sentences still strung in the air between them.

"What's going on, Chuck? How did you end up a captive in a courier's office?"

Chuck blew out a breath, his cheeks bulging as he did. "That's a long story. And it's not all mine to tell. Some of it belongs to my sister, Ellie. I mentioned her to you, remember?"

"I do. And I met her earlier today."

Chuck jerked in his seat. "Ellie's here? She's okay?"

"Yes, or she was a little earlier today. Didn't you know she was coming?"

"I did. Or I knew she was planning it. I just hoped she would change her mind. Head back to LA."

"Is Ellie in danger, Chuck?"

"Yes. No. I'm not sure." He huffed and put down the bit of cruller. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Is that good for your ulcer?"

"No, but, God, I love coffee, and even more since Friday, that cup at _Patel's_." His glance at her as he finished the comment was boyish, bashful.

Sarah blushed, taking his full meaning. "Thanks, Chuck…"

"No, Sarah, really, thank you. I just...I mean...When the woman from housekeeping told me who you really were...And I thought about the questions you were asking...All that's going on."

"Chuck, slow down, please. I don't understand. Can we just start at the beginning?"

"Your story or mine?"

"Yours. I've told you the most important part of mine. Last night." She reached out and held her hand palm-up on the tabletop. Chuck reached out in response and interlocked his fingers with hers. "_Not my job_, Chuck, and it was so wonderful, you were so wonderful. I left you a note on the flipside of your note, saying that, but that bastard Larkin has it now."

"Larkin? Oh, wait, _the smile_? The guy from Friday. Well, and today. Say, how're his teeth that unearthly color — given that he chain-smokes Marlboros?"

Sarah laughed at the unexpected question. "I don't know. Some Faustian dental bargain, I guess. Satan gets Larkin's soul, Larkin gets whiter-than-white teeth. But he's an intersection between your story and mine. We'll get to that. Start yours."

Chuck took another sip of coffee but kept his hand in Sarah's. She noticed that the butterflies seemed to have escaped the Dunkin Donuts, most of them.

"I'll start at _one_ beginning. Friday, B.S."

"B.S.?"

"_Before Sarah_." He gave Sarah his small smile, his intimate one. It thrilled her to know that she knew it. "Anyway, Friday. Friday morning — before I met you. So, I was staying at the Blackmoor."

"Oh, _that_ Hot-Pillow House. Bad choice." Sarah shook her head. "Lots of professionals use it."

"I take it you mean..._professionals_."

"Sarah nodded. Yes, but you'd be surprised. A lot of the women who...work...at places like the Blackmoor have decent day jobs, make okay money, just not enough. They're padding a slim pay envelope. Some are even saving money for weddings — or bedroom suites."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Really? And the husbands-to-be or husbands know this?"

"No. Mostly not, because part-time pros like that are typically terrified of house detectives and even more of police. They have decent day jobs, too, remember, and don't want to lose them. So it's all extra secretive, or they want it to be. Some full-timers work the Blackmoor, of course."

"Is there much of that at the Palmer House?"

"Part-timers? No. Serious full-timers, really expensive girls, sure. But we couldn't do much about them if we tried. The part-timers often have to pick up men in the hotel, in a hotel bar or hotel lobby, and that going on is...not so good for hotel business or reputation. And people figure it out. But the expensive girls, they are...engaged...before they arrive, they don't...loiter in the lobby...they go to the room, and they do their job and leave."

Chuck shook his head. "Huh. I had no idea."

He stared out the window for a second, shook it, and went on.

"So, back to my story, I was at the Blackmoor. Alone. I got up late that morning and wanted something to eat. I went downstairs and asked the desk clerk to recommend a place. He mentioned several, including _Patel's _but said it was quite a walk away. I was...anxious...and hadn't slept well, and I thought a walk in the cold might help me, so I...I think I mentioned going there. But I had forgotten my coat in my room."

"Your trench coat?"

Chuck nodded. "Right. And I had on that suit. I guess that's lost now, that, and the trench coat, along with all my other things?"

"Probably, sorry. Go on." Sarah was eager to hear the story. "Did you happen to notice anyone in the lobby while you were talking to the desk clerk?" She had a suspicion.

Chuck's gaze settled in the middle distance. "No, no one. — Well, now that you mention it, there was a man reading the paper."

Sarah nodded. "But you didn't see his face?"

"No, I didn't."

"But you did make it clear to the clerk you were going to walk to _Patel's_?"

"Yes, I was...pretty definite. I went upstairs and got my coat, popped a peppermint, and headed for _Patel's._"

"Have you been struggling with the ulcer for long?"

"Months."

"The man in the lobby was gone?"

"Yes, now that you mention it. The paper was folded in the chair."

"And that's where I entered the story?"

"Yes, I got to _Patel's_, saw you knock over your bag…"

"The meeting you were going to go to after Patel's. It was at the Green Mill, right? With Tony Accardo. Carina saw _you._"

He gave her an embarrassed nod. "Yes, and I was...anxious...to say the least, about that meeting. But you got my mind off it for a while. Gave me something else to think about." He glanced up at her. "Even after I left."

Sarah felt her heart flutter, then pound. "You, me, too."

They sat for a moment and each squeezed the other's hand. "So, I left and walked back to the Blackmoor. There was a message for me. The meeting had been moved back to later in the afternoon. So, I cursed my luck. I had to wait longer to meet a mob boss, and I could've spent more time with you."

"You could have asked me for my number or where I worked."

"I know. I thought about it before I left the diner. But, I was afraid for me and afraid to be more afraid, afraid for you too. I wasn't entirely sure I would live out the day."

Sarah inhaled, and they sat in the shadow of Chuck's words.

"So," Sarah said after a moment, putting her other hand on their joined hands. "What was the meeting about?"

Chuck took his hand back from hers, slowly, gently. Using both hands, he rubbed his face. It was then that Sarah realized just how tired he looked, how much pressure he had been under. For a long time, evidently.

She got up and went around to his side of the booth and slid in. She put her arm around him and pulled him tight against her side.

He looked at her, his eyes as revealing and as revealed as she had yet seen them, as vulnerable. "So, last night, it was really real?"

She knew then that what Louisa had told him had hurt him; his anger was a veneer over his hurt. Holding his eyes with hers, she leaned in and kissed him, a kiss like the one he had given her on the dance floor, hungry but unhurried. When their lips parted, she sought out his eyes once more.

"Really real, Chuck."

She decided to tell him some of her story. She smiled. "See, I met this guy in a diner a couple of days ago, and he swept me off my feet with a fountain pen…"

His eyes warmed.

"I was so...surprised by him — and I have never been...good...at surprises, — that I let him walk away from me. But then, almost miraculously, when I later mention meeting him to my roommate, describe him, she thinks she saw him. Talking to a mob boss."

Sarah inflected the words as Chuck had.

"I didn't believe it, but she had a Polaroid. It was too blurry to be sure...but...it could have been the man who was on my mind."

She paused. Chuck kissed her lips quickly. "The same man who is now on your lips?"

Sarah grinned, licking her lips and tilting her head as if thinking the question over. "Yes, yes, I think so."

There were no butterflies in the Dunkin Donuts.

Sarah lingered for a moment in the after-effects of the kiss, the deep joy of the morning had found her again in the booth, but then she made herself go on. They still had not gotten to the heart of the events.

That night, or rather, the next morning, I got a call from work. There'd been a murder at the hotel, it turned out to be a woman, Maria Tomek."

Chuck's eyes showed pain. Sarah continued.

"I went to the Palmer House, driven by a taxi driver whose car heater didn't work well and who took a long time, and by the time I got there, FBI agents and police were in the room.

"The FBI agent in charge told me about the victim and then about the only witness, such as she was. The witness was the maid you spoke to this morning, and she said she saw a man leaving the fifth floor, the floor of Tomek's room, wearing a trench coat and a hat."

Sarah slowed. "But I have never seen you with a hat."

"I left it in my room at the Blackmoor before I walked to _Patel's_. Distracted. And then I forgot about it after I moved out in the middle of the night. The Blackmoor may have it in Lost-and-Found, I suppose, if they have a Lost-and-Found."

Sarah felt her chest tightening. "So, did Louisa see _you_, Chuck?"

He looked at her, his eyes guarded again. "Yes, I guess she did."

"You were _in_ Maria's room?"

"Yes, I was."

Sarah felt the tightrope under her feet sway, her balance threatened. "Chuck?"

"I didn't kill her, Sarah. She was dead when I got there."

The pain in his eyes became pronounced. "But it was my fault."

* * *

The Dunkin Donuts spun around Sarah, all metal-gleaming and orange and magenta and brown and white, but all spinning at once, a muted-rainbow swirl. She held onto Chuck.

"What do you mean, your fault?"

Chuck looked away, blew out another breath. "I didn't know then that...Lousia...saw me…"

"_Chuck_?"

He looked at her again. "So, that's why you were asking me those questions? You suspected me." He gave her an interrogating look. "I guess I see why. And then you saw me with those men at the Josh White show. So, you were doing your job — after all."

Chuck slid farther into the booth, creating a distance between them, sliding from beneath Sarah's arm.

"Yes, but no. Part of me was suspicious, part of me...much the opposite. I _was_ investigating the murder. Still am. My boss — maybe you've seen him in the hotel? Big guy, well dressed, former Marine. John Casey."

Chuck nodded. "I've seen him, I think."

"Well, he wanted to make sure the Palmer House was..._covered_...you know, about the murder, so he asked me to look into it. Mr. Hilton asked. So, I ran into you, checking in, and talked to Louisa, and her description fit you. But it fits lots of men who have passed through the Palmer House."

Sarah paused. "So, how did you end up in Maria Tomek's room, Chuck? How could what happened to her be your fault?"

"Because I knew she was in danger and I didn't get to her, warn her, in time. I...I…"

"Chuck, what?"

"I met with Accardo about...family matters — mine, and _his_, I suppose, although 'family' doesn't mean the same in both cases. While I was there, it became clear to me that he was just cat-and-mousing me, playing with me, amusing himself. Toying.

"He knew how...well, how terrified I was, how nervous, how sick to my stomach. Like having Carina take that picture; he did it to torment me. About the time I thought our conversation had ended, in fact, just after Carina left, Accardo insisted I take a drive with him."

Sarah stiffened.

"We drove out to a warehouse, a distance. It was empty inside, except for this guy sitting there, a kind of crazy looking guy who Accardo just called 'Joe'. The guy had a couple of handguns on a metal barrel. On the other end of the warehouse floor were a few bottles on another metal barrel. Accardo told me he'd do what I wanted if I could outshoot Joe. So, Joey picked up one gun and shot and shattered all but one of the bottles. He put the gun down and walked the distance to the other barrel and put up more bottles, the same number as he started with. He came back. He nodded to the other gun and I picked it up."

Sarah stiffened more.

Chuck sighed. "I've never been much for guns, but my mom, believe it or not, was a gun enthusiast, and so, when I was younger, I would go to a range in LA with her. She was a crack shot."

"Was?" Sarah asked softly.

"Yeah," Chuck breathed out sadly, "_was_. She and my dad are dead. They died when I was in high school. A plane crash. Luckily, Ellie was old enough to be my guardian, and so we were able to stay together. Not everyone is so lucky."

"I lost my mom when I was just a little girl," Sarah said, surprising herself with the immediate admission, "I grew up first with my grandma, then with my dad."

Chuck gave her a sympathetic look and scooted back to her, taking her hand. "Sorry, Sarah. I know what a gaping hole in childhood the loss of a parent, or of parents, makes. It seems impossible to fill it."

They sat together for a moment.

"So," Sarah said, shaking her head but squeezing Chuck's hand, glad of his return, "back to Tony and Joe. You picked up the gun and you tried to outshoot Joe?"

"I started to. But then Tony stopped me. He told me that there was another way he would do what I wanted. We could trade favors. And then he told me about 'this bit of trash, a whore', Maria Tomek, and how she needed to be 'taken care of'. He never came out and said anything, exactly, or asked me to do anything, but he was hinting that he would do what I wanted if I would kill Maria Tomek.

"I told him I'd rather shoot bottles, and I picked up the gun and fired. I hit all but two. I lost. And then Tony laughed and told me he'd just been kidding me, scaring me a little, and he said he would do what I wanted after all.

"I put the gun down. Tony walked off into the distance with Joe, and they talked for a few minutes, and then he came back and he dropped me near the Blackmoor."

"Oh, Chuck."

"What?"

Sarah shook her head but her mind was racing. "Not now. Just go on."

Chuck got a strange look on his face. "Well, at that point, I took a cab back to the Green Mill." He paused and his face became secretive. "You see, part of the reason I was so anxious was that I was hoping, trying to...double-cross...Tony Accardo. I had a plan."

"What do you mean?" Sarah felt her eyes go wide.

"Remember, when you met Norbert Davis, I mentioned I went to Stanford?"

Sarah nodded.

"Well, I was a star student there." He said it without arrogance. "A scholarship kid — Lord knows there's no way Ellie could have sent me. I studied electrical engineering. Worked four years in the library to cover the difference between the scholarship and expenses.

"Anyway, when I came out here, I brought this distance recording system I created for the purpose. It records over distances, surprisingly long distances. The mic is tiny. I built it into a Parker 51 fountain pen. I had it with me when I was with Tony, talking to Tony. I hid the recorder in the alley behind the Green Mill."

"So you _recorded_ the conversation at the Green Mill?"

"Well, no. I should have recorded that, and the conversation at the warehouse."

"_Should have_?"

"It didn't work, for some reason. The recorder was where I hid it but the tape was blank."

"So, what did you do?"

"I hurried back to the Blackmoor. I found out the tape was blank once I was back there; I didn't test it in the Green Mill alley. Then I started to worry. — Not about me, or Ellie, but about this _Maria Tomek_. Tony said she was at a 'swanky' hotel, the Palmer House, Room 564. I rushed over to warn her.

"When I got there, the door was standing open a crack. I shouldered it open, calling her name but fearing what I would find. Did find. She was dead. I was too late. Not a lot, but a little. Enough. Enough too late." Chuck dropped his head.

"I should've called the police, should've done something, but I knew...I knew it would _all_ come out...and she was dead already, that wasn't going to change. I left. I was a fucking coward, Sarah."

Sarah squeezed his hand and reached out with her other hand to turn his face to her. He had looked away. "All _what_ would come out?"

"That's Ellie's story, Sarah. But I should've done something."

"Oh, Chuck, Chuck. Accardo played with you. In fact, he played you."

"I know."

"No, Chuck, you don't. Not fully. No one else touched the gun you fired, did they?"

"Not that I saw...Oh...Oh, shit. The gun..."

"Yes, that's not good. Not good at all, Chuck."

"But I know that Tony knew she was in Chicago."

Sarah felt the vise-grip. "Yes, but it is your word against his. Did anyone else see you at the warehouse?"

"No, it was deserted, the whole area. Only that Joe guy was around."

"Do you have any ties to Maria Tomek, Chuck, any tie, yours or Ellie's, that could be a motive for murdering her?"

"No, none. I'd never heard of Maria until Tony said her name."

Sarah was thinking, hard. "Look, Chuck, there are things about me you need to know, things I want to tell you, but right now, we need to get you into hiding. Unless I am mistaken, and I have a sense about these things that is never — well, _rarely_ — misleading, you are about to be in serious trouble."

She took a shaky breath. "Why on earth did you move to the Palmer House after you left the room, after you left Maria's body?"

Chuck gave a quick, helpless shrug. "I didn't think about it, the murder itself, as having anything to do with me. I guess I thought Accardo and his men would not be in any hurry to show up there. And I was struggling, trying to decide what to do. And I really was being kept up by...bouncing springs at the Blackmoor. I needed some sleep."

He shrugged yet again, less quick but more helpless. "I wasn't thinking clearly, I guess."

"Did you touch her, touch anything in the room?"

"I touched _her_, her neck. I had to know if she was alive. But I used my hat to pull the door back, to crack the door as it was when I arrived. Later, when I moved to the Palmer House, I saw that there was blood on my suit jacket's sleeve, so I sent it to the hotel dry cleaners."

"Did you mention the blood to the cleaners, specifically?"

"No, I just had them come and get it. It was returned to me, but I never even got it out of the plastic…"

Sarah shook her head. "Well, Larkin, or his boss, has it and your other things by now. We need to get you out of sight."

Chuck absently ate the last bite of his cruller, not fully aware of what he was doing, staring at the table.

Sarah had an idea.

She picked up her coffee and took a thoughtful sip.

"I guess I know what to do with you," the situation could not keep her from giving Chuck a slightly suggestive smile, "we just need to work out the details. Let's get you out of sight, and then let's get Ellie to you. We all need to talk. Let's hope Bryce is as clueless about that note or at least as slow to work out it out as he is the clues in most of his investigations."

Chuck gave her a puzzled look.

"I'll explain once you are hidden." She put the coffee down and stood, extending her hand to Chuck as she had at _Moe's. _

This time, he took it.

* * *

A/N: Chuck, Chuck, Chuck…

Thoughts?

To the Guest commentator who asked about where _Heaven and Hell_ has gone (and thanks for the kind word about that story): I have taken it down for a specific reason. It will likely be reposted eventually but I can't give a time-table on that.


	11. Purloined Letterman

A/N: More Hotel Detective.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Eleven: Purloined Letterman

* * *

The Dunkin Donuts was in an area of Chicago Sarah knew. She and Carina had come to it several times when furnishing the apartment. It was populous with thrift shops and other shops selling second-hand wares.

She led Chuck in the snow. Her nerves had quieted since their kisses. A tumult reigned in her breast, but it was somehow a good tumult: things inside her were changing size, shape, and place. Chuck was reorganizing her inner economy.

A two-block forced march in the snow brought them to Sarah's destination. It was a tiny military surplus store run by a woman who had been a friend of Sarah's father's when Sarah was a girl and on the grift with him. They had seen her whenever they passed through Chicago.

Sarah had been in a couple of times recently. The woman was not exactly a friend, but she treated Sarah kindly.

It helped that the woman also insisted on being open on Sundays, an oddity. Chuck slowed as Sarah neared the door and looked up at the sign. _Drab Olive Drab. _

He grinned in open puzzlement, rubbing his arms from the cold. "Really?"

Sarah nodded. "Really. The woman who runs this place — I know her. From...way back. She's...a character. Don't say much, Chuck. Do not mention your name. I trust her but...well, let's just burden her with as little information as possible. C'mon."

Sarah, sideways against the door, pushed it open with one shoulder, grinning reassurance at Chuck. As she pulled Chuck behind her through the door, the golden bell above it, inside, rang molten-golden notes, a paradox: a staccato liquid ditty. In the past, Sarah had always enjoyed the sound; at that moment, it thrilled her. Rhyming and chiming.

They stood on the rug inside the door and shook off the snow. Sarah glanced at Chuck. His head was swiveling slowly. The tiny store was aheap with olive drab and camouflage, the first impression was of being in the out-of-doors. That was what a first look suggested. A second look revealed an order in the multi-green chaos.

A woman was seated behind the desk at the back of the store, and she was eyeing Sarah.

The woman was smoking a small meerschaum pipe, delicately carved, with a bent, slender amber stem. Instead of making her masculine, the pipe made her more feminine and more mysterious. She looked remarkably like Gretta Garbo. Or that is what Sarah's dad used to say. Sarah had seen photos of Garbo in lobby magazines, and she admitted the resemblance.

The shop was replete with the odor of aging canvas and smoldering perique.

"Well, well, if it isn't my little Olivia Twist," the woman said, her voice melodic, almost sing-song. "But that is not your handsome Fagin father beside you." One eyebrow rose at the same rate as the smoke ring in the air.

Sarah frowned and the woman saw it. The other eyebrow rose slowly. "How may I help you?" A subtle shift in her manner occurred, cool familiar to cool formal.

"Hey, Marlena. Glad you're here. We need a jacket for him." Sarah gazed at Chuck. "Nothing eye-catching. But warm. We need a hat too. And gloves. If you have any pants in his size, two pairs. Socks. Oh, and a hat. I guess I said that." Sarah made herself shift attention from Chuck.

Marlena suppressed a smirk and looked at Chuck with a tailor's gaze, up and down. She nodded, put her pipe down in a copper ashtray, and then went into the back, through a doorway behind the desk.

Sarah turned to face Chuck.

He raised an eyebrow. "Olivia Twist? Fagin? I can't decide if I'm in a Dickens novel or a Welles film."

"As I said, I know her from way back," Sarah said, walking away from Chuck and toward a display of combat knives. After a moment, Chuck followed. Sarah picked up one of the knives, sheathed, and unsheathed it. She moved it quickly in her hand, shifting grips, then tossed it to the other hand and did the same.

"Wow, I suspect you are better with that than with a wrench."

Sarah blushed, suddenly and awkwardly self-conscious. "Um, yes, I know about knives."

Chuck started to ask a question then edited himself. "How...I know — you'll tell me later. So, what is it?" He nodded at the knife.

"It's Mark 3. Navy, mostly. Made by Ontario Knife Company. Probably Korean War."

Before Chuck could respond, Marlena came out of the back. She had a tall stack of items in her arms, and she put it down on the counter. Sarah re-sheathed the knife and walked to the counter, carrying it still, Chuck behind her.

"Here's what you need, I think," she said to Sarah. She shifted her gaze to Chuck. "The dressing room is over there, other side of the room." She gestured casually to it.

Chuck slipped past Sarah, grabbed the stack of clothes and went to the door. He opened it and, after giving Sarah his small, intimate smile, he went inside. Sarah noticed Marlen watching her, and she realized that she had been and still was smiling back at Chuck. She could feel the dreaminess in her expression.

She blanked it.

"You are sleeping with him, eh, little one? And loving it, I can tell." Marlena's voice was thick, purring, a cat speaking after a sip of cream.

Sarah could not stop her blush, but she lied through it. "No, nothing like that."

Marlena's eyebrows floated upward in tandem. "And he is...I take it...a deep-sea diver, a man who can hold...his breath?"

Sarah became a burning blush. Marlena picked up her pipe and put the stem in her mouth suggestively, winking at Sarah as she did. Then she picked up a jade-crusted lighter and lit the pipe, still staring at Sarah over the flame, inhaling it into the bowl, relighting the tobacco. It glowed in the pipe as if imitating Sarah's blush.

"You have...feelings...for him. He's not just a diver." Marlena offered this in a tone of detached appraisal.

Sarah did not answer. She looked toward the dressing room, then back to Marlena. "Have you seen Dad, Marlena?"

"My deep-sea diver?" Marlena asked, devilment playing around the edges of her mouth as she put down the lighter. "No, and it is too bad. I could use a man to...plumb the depths. Your father is my favorite."

Sarah looked down at the sheathed knife in her hands. Her father had always been between Sarah and Marlena. The first few times Sarah and her father traveled through Chicago, Sarah had not been old enough to suss out what was happening between her father and the woman. But she had not warmed to Marlena.

Later, older, on other trips through Chicago, she knew what was happening, and was sometimes left alone in a motel room while it happened. Marlena had recognized and seemed to understand Sarah's chafing jealousy, her conviction that her father was cheating even though her mother, his wife, was dead. But that had not kept Marlena from frank references to the fact that she was sleeping with Sarah's father and enjoying it. The references did not seem to be aimed at Sarah, meant to hurt her, but they did.

It had taken Sarah a long time for Sarah to understand. In fact, it had been during lonely nights on the Farm that Sarah had finally did understand. For all of Marlena's apparent, casual, Continental freedom about sex, she had real feelings for Sarah's father and was eager to have them reciprocated.

It was never clear to Sarah, and so, Sarah suspected, never clear to Marlena, whether Marlena's feelings were reciprocated. Sarah's father was a man of false bottoms. It was impossible to know if or when your feet found solid ground, reality. That had been a source of misery to Sarah as a girl, and the object of a reluctant acceptance as a young woman.

Of course, there must have been a reason she and her father kept coming back to Chicago. And why her father had always seemed happiest there. Perhaps that was why Sarah had chosen to move to Chicago when she left the CIA. It was a place where her father had been happy, and, despite her resentment of Marlena, Sarah had been happy there too — happier than anywhere else, anyway, because her father was happy there.

Sarah gave Marlena a genuinely warm smile, a fellow-traveler's smile. "I know, Marlena. Who knows where he is? If he contacts me, I'll tell him to call you, come by. Do the same for me?"

Marlena puffed on her pipe and nodded once. Sarah rifled through some military pins and patches in a box by the register. Marlena smoked. Neither spoke again.

A few moments later, Chuck stepped out of the dressing room. He had on the sweater he had been wearing when she found him at _Moe's_ but now had on a pair of olive drab trousers. He was also wearing a long, dark green military trench coat. It had epaulets, a large collar, caped shoulders, and a belt. On his head was a black watch cap.

Sarah felt her knees weaken, then heard Marlena half chuckle, half hum, the slice of chuckle at Sarah, the slice of hum for Chuck. "Very nice. Very tall and very nice. Sarah approves, I think."

Sarah was not sure he looked better in what he was wearing than he did in what he was wearing on Friday at _Patel's_. But he looked so good. _So good. _And she knew what was under the clothes now so that she could indulge the illusion of x-ray vision. She tried not to do it, but she could not help herself. She had planned to spend the morning in bed, after all, but events had taken a hard left turn. _So hard. _

Sarah forced herself to look at Chuck with mission eyes. The coat was unobtrusive, the hat hid Chuck's wavy hair and made him look a little shorter, as did the unbuckled belt. The pants fit him well. He looked as neutral as he would look, unlikely to call attention to himself.

"So, it all fits?"

Chuck nodded. "Yeah, she's got a good eye."

Marlena chucked a full chuckle.

Chuck glanced at her and back to Sarah.

"Oh, this is Marlena. Marlena, this is...my boyfriend."

Marlena's chuckle became louder, throatier. She pulled her pipe from her mouth, and blew out a ring of smoke. It drifted between Chuck and Sarah.

Chuck was staring at Sarah, his mouth open.

Sarah made herself face the counter. "Put all this on my tab, Marlena?"

The woman nodded, tapping dark red amber mouthpiece of her pipe against her bright red lips. "And I take it you were never here?"

Sarah gave Marlena a look of thanks.

"Okay, Chuck, let's get going. Put the other things in this." She handed Chuck a small khaki shoulder bag. He took it and returned to the dressing room.

"So, this, him, your boyfriend, this is on the level, Sarah?"

"Yes. It is."

"Does he understand that?"

"I'm trying to convince him."

"Good luck. Such efforts...sometimes fail. He's lovely."

"Thanks, Marlena. Add this to the bill," Sarah said, slipping the sheathed combat knife into the pocket of her coat.

* * *

Chuck was standing on the street corner with Sarah, snow falling wet and heavy around them. He had on the black watch cap and the dark green military trench coat. Snow was gathering on the epaulets of his coat, the top of his khaki bag.

"We're going _where?_"

"Chuck, look, I gave you my phone number…"

He shot her a confused stare.

"I mean I put it on the flipside of your note, in my note. And Larkin will work out that it is my number."

Chuck's confused stare intensified but changed targets. "Larkin knows your phone number?"

Sarah went on. "That means I can't take you to my place. And I need you...nearby."

"But you seemed to think I was crazy to move from the Blackmoor to the Palmer House!"

"Chuck," Sarah said softly, looking around to check their surroundings but also as a reminder to Chuck of their situation, "I didn't think you were crazy. It was just not a...tactically sound choice. This is. Think about it. The place is huge, with over 1600 guest rooms. You won't be registered. I'll sneak you in, sneak you to a room. One lanky man in a single room is a needle in a many-storied haystack."

Chuck considered that. Then: "'Lanky'? I'd say _athletic_. I was a runner in high school, a letterman." He straightened up in mock-pride.

Sarah giggled in the snow, feeling warm all over. "I'm impressed, Mr. Fall-Down-While-Fleeing-Captors."

Chuck's shoulder's mock-sank and a grin curled his lips. "I was just distracting that guy with the falling peppermints. You know, the one you conked with a wrench. So you could surprise him. I didn't think a living human being could quite...rubberize...the way he did."

Sarah shrugged. She could see questions in Chuck's eyes but the answers were not to be given among snowflakes.

"So, I'm going to step into this phone booth and make some calls. You just stand back there, under that awning. Do not go anywhere."

He gave her a salute and moved to his assigned spot. Sarah grinned at him then opened the phone booth and stepped inside. She put a dime in and put the phone to her ear. The phone was cold.

"Palmer House, Morgan Grimes speaking. How may I help you?"

"Morgan, it's Sarah."

"Sarah!" There was relief in Morgan's whisper-shout. "Thank God. Did you find Bartowski, did you find Chuck?"

"I did. Morgan. He was taken, he didn't leave. He's in trouble. I am going to ask you to do something for me that could get you into trouble. Well, for me and for Chuck. I need you to change the work orders for 2022. Make sure no one is supposed to go into that room for the next few days."

Morgan was silent on the other end. "So, you're going to hide Chuck there?"

"Yes, and I am only going to tell you. You could get into trouble. I need you to acknowledge that before you say _yes."_

More silence. Then Morgan cleared his throat. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Have I told you, Sarah, that when I grow up, I want to be a hotel detective?"

"You may have mentioned it."

"But I also like you, Sarah, and I like Chuck, so sure, I'll do it. Do you need me to see about stocking the room? Towels, bedclothes?"

"Yes, if you can do it stealthily. I'll have him up there within the hour."

"I have my last break coming up. I'll take care of things right away. And 'stealth' is my middle name."

"Your parents must have been sadists…"

"You have no idea. How will you get him up there without being seen?"

"I'll figure that out, Morgan. Thanks, Morgan, for everything today. I...Chuck...you see, we…"

"I know, Sarah. I figured that out right away. I know a goner when I see one. Bye, Sarah."

"Bye, Morgan."

Sarah reached up and pushed down the lever, disconnecting the call. She dialed her own apartment. After several rings, Carina answered.

"Hello?"

She sounded breathless and Sarah panicked. "Carina? Are you okay?"

"Whoa, girl. Yes, I'm fine. Better than fine. Just...entertaining myself."

"Oh, God, Carina. I don't want to know that. Ever. — Say, has anyone else called, the phone rang?"

"No, not that I know of. Why?"

"I think Larkin might call or show up. If he shows up, he'll be looking for Chuck. Let him. Don't tell him, unless he knows, about seeing Chuck at the Green Mill. Don't tell him about Chuck and me."

"So, he came back, Chuck?"

"Not exactly. It's a long story. He didn't leave; he was taken. And Larkin is involved. It's the Outfit, I think. Larkin's tied into it."

Sarah could hear Carina breathing, but less quickly than when she answered. "That's...incredible. Well, except for the part about Larkin being a closet mobster. That part makes perfect sense. He had to afford dental care somehow. So, what are you going to do with Chuck — other than reprise last night?"

"I have to hide him. I have a place. I just wanted to warn you. It might be best to find someplace else to spend the rest of the day...if you're done _entertaining."_

Carina laughed. "One great thing about being a woman is that you can entertain and entertain and entertain, world without end…or men…"

"Um, yeah, right. So, are you going to go out?"

"Now that you mention it, yes, I am. I have an automat shift this evening. I'll just head out early. Maybe I'll stop by the hotel."

"Okay, do. Bring me a change of clothes, please. If I have time, I'll fill you in."

Carina started giggling. "No clear and present need."

Sarah sighed and hung up, shaking her head. Carina did seem more and more like her old self.

Chuck was still beneath the awning. Sarah opened the phone booth and stepped out, gesturing to him.

He came. "So, everything okay?"

"So far, Chuck. But we have a long climb ahead of us." She gave him a small smile. "So, letterman?" She bumped his shoulder with hers.

He met her small smile with a large one, shoulder-bumping her back. "So, boyfriend?"

They walked on in answerless silence, except Sarah reached out and took Chuck's hand.

* * *

Chuck shrugged off of the green trench coat and the shoulder bag and fell onto the freshly made bed. Sarah shrugged off her coat, unwound her scarf, and she fell too.

They were both panting.

Twenty flights of stairs. Stops and starts — but they had climbed them unseen and managed to get into 2022 unseen as well. It was that room's bed they were on.

"Good Lord," Chuck wheezed after a minute, "I haven't breathed this hard since the last time I was in bed."

It took Sarah a minute, then she rolled on top of him. "Hey, I get that, Mister."

"I hope so," Chuck said, actually blushing at his own remark. He lifted his head and kissed her. She felt the gravity of the bed in a new way. She made herself get up, sit down in the armchair near the bed.

Chuck sat up. "Okay, so now I'm here. What next?"

Sarah dispelled several answering images that entered her mind. "We need to talk. To each other. We need to talk to Ellie."

Chuck's demeanor became serious. "Right. What more do you want to know?"

She leaned back a bit in the chair as if studying Chuck. "Did you talk to your captors about me?"

"Maybe," Chuck looked away, "but not by name and I supplied no...details. I just...bellyached for a while. I thought...I thought...I don't know...I guess I thought that last night was…"

"...Me seducing you for hotel detective purposes?"

"Yeah, I guess that's it. The last thing I expected was to wake up to you — in all your glory — in my hotel room."

"'All my glory'? You mean _naked_?"

"Yes," he nodded, "yes."

"Well, Chuck, that was not characteristic behavior on my part, and I want you, need you, to know that. I've...been with men, but never so quickly, never wanted it...so much." She made herself meet his eyes, hold them for a moment. Then she went on, grinning. "So, you told your captors a woman had taken advantage of you?"

"Basically," he admitted, reluctantly, "and it didn't seem to impress them."

Sarah laughed softly. "I guess not."

Chuck swung his feet around, put them on the floor, faced her. "So, that karate chop thing, the wrench, the pipe-smoking ex-movie star, the Korean combat knife...You were going to tell me about yourself?"

"Let me start at _one _beginning." She took a breath and made herself speak. "And remember, Chuck. I am on your side now.

"So, Bryce Larkin. _Patel's. _I worked for Bryce for a while. He is a private detective. I was hired as his secretary, but with an understanding...I thought that I would eventually start working as an investigator too. But it turned out he only wanted me to work under him."

Chuck nodded. "Oh." Then he nodded with more vigor. "Oh!"

"Yes. I was idiotic enough to go out with him. But I ended it on the third date, a Friday, and I submitted my resignation the following Monday. Not too long after that, looking for work, I ran into John Casey, also at _Patel's_ — maybe that place is lucky for me? — and I ended up getting hired at the Palmer House."

"Wow, that was quite a jump."

"Yes and no. You mentioned that I have impressive skills. The wrench. I learned them at the Farm."

"What?" Chuck asked. "Did you have wrench-tossing contests after chasing greased pigs?"

"No, Old McDonald, not that kind of farm. Not _a _farm, Chuck, _the _Farm."

It was Chuck's turn to take a minute. "You were CIA?" He leaned toward her and whispered the question.

She leaned toward him and whispered her answer. "Yes, I was _Agent_ Walker."

Chuck leaned back, blinking. He said nothing, he just looked at her. "I don't get it. If you were CIA, why would Larkin make you his _secretary_?"

"Because, although I listed the CIA as an employer, I never actually told him what I did. He assumed I was a secretary at Langley."

"Why not correct him?"

"Because I could tell he was...insecure...about his investigative skills. I hoped I could ease my way into working as a detective and then ease my way into revealing my real background."

"And going out with him?"

"As you said about your move from the Blackmoor to the Palmer House: I wasn't thinking straight. I hadn't been on a date in a long time, and he did manage to ask nicely each time." She shrugged. "Mainly, I was just lonely, I suppose, and I thought he might be different outside the office."

"Was he?"

"No. I'll give Larkin this. He is what he seems to be. I should have known that."

"And the note had your phone number on it? So he'll eventually recognize it?"

"Yes, or he'll find someone at the phone company who will refresh his memory."

"But what about Carina?"

"She was one of the people I called. I hope she'll be okay, and she's supposed to leave the apartment. I assume that once Larkin knows you aren't there he won't bother her."

"Won't he suspect I am here?"

"Maybe, but if we manage things right, I hope not. This room is under repair, as you can see, although Morgan did a good job getting it ready for you to use. As long as you stay in the room, and stay quiet, no one should ever have a reason to come in. Housekeeping has the room marked off their list and it won't reappear until repairs are done. You're safe for now. We're safe."

What about the workmen?"

"Morgan's changed their work orders. They'll be working in other parts of the hotel."

Chuck gave her a coy glance. "So I have to be quiet?" His voice took on a softer tone. "How quiet?"

Sarah felt her pulse quicken. "If, for example, you had the...need...to moan loudly, you would have to muffle it."

Chuck reached out his hand and put it on her knee. "What if I had the...need...to call out a name, say, your name?"

She slid forward on the chair, making his hand on her knee move farther up her thigh. "You'd have to whisper the name in her ear. Say, in my ear."

Chuck's eyes met hers, desire interlocked with desire. "Do you think she...you, say...could muffle her moans, her calls of, say, my name?" He moved his hand farther into her lap, his finger's stroking slowly and gently.

She slid farther and lifted her lap to provide better access to his hand. She breathed out a long, deep breath, closing her eyes. "Well, if she...if, say, _I_ were a former CIA agent, I would be used to doing important things _very_ quietly."

"I have more questions about the CIA…About the mysterious woman at the surplus store."

She slid farther down in the armchair as Chuck pulled down the zipper of her pants. "I know, Chuck. And I will tell you. But...later, okay?"

Chuck rose from the bed to bend over her, undoing the button of her pants, slipping his hand carefully past cloth to bare, tingling flesh, and then kissing her forcefully, parting her lips.

* * *

They were quiet together for a long time.

* * *

Sarah ran her fingers through her hair and tried to calm herself. She was standing, clothed, in the bathroom of 2022, and she did not want to look like she had just been doing...what she had been doing.

But thinking of it made her temperature rise again, and all the calm she had collected dispersed.

She took a breath and checked her watch. It was early Sunday night, 8 pm. The sun had set as Sarah and Chuck made love. She had not wanted to leave the bed, but she had to know the whole story, and Chuck refused to tell it.

Sarah left the bathroom. Chuck had made the bed then called Ellie's room. They told her to come to 2022 but not to knock. She was to wave if there was no one around.

Chuck was standing, dressed again, with his eye to the peep-hole. Sarah walked to him and put her arms around him, sticking her hands in his pockets. She felt him tremble, gasp.

"I see her, Sarah."

Sarah removed her hands and stepped back.

"She waved," Chuck said, as he opened the door enough for Ellie to slip inside.

Ellie had changed into more comfortable clothes, a soft green blouse and jeans. She had on tennis shoes, Chuck Taylors. She did not look like the elegant woman of fashion any longer. She looked very much like Chuck's sister.

Ellie looked at the two of them and then around the room. Her eyes lingered on the bed for a moment and she gave Sarah a sideways glance.

"Okay, you two. Here I am. What is going on?"

"I need _you_ to tell that to Sarah, Ellie."

Ellie took a step back and glared at her brother. "Chuck, no. I will not talk about it."

"Ellie, whatever it is, it got Chuck kidnapped today. I was able to find him and rescue him, but, frankly, I'm worried that his troubles have just started. But he won't tell me what is going on and I need to know if I am going to protect him, protect you."

Ellie grabbed Chuck and hugged him, squeezing tightly. "Oh, Chuck. Are you okay?"

Chuck nodded. Ellie stepped back. "Thanks, Sarah."

"Ellie, you need to tell her." Chuck's tone was gentle but insistent.

Ellie bit her lip, staring at Sarah. One tennis-shoed foot was tap-tap-tapping. "Why would a Palmer House detective put herself on the line for two strangers, people she barely knows?" Ellie's question sounded slightly rhetorical.

"Because I am not doing it for two strangers, Ellie. I'm doing it for...my boyfriend and his sister."

There was still wariness in Ellie's eyes, but she grinned at Sarah and glanced at the bed. Sarah followed her glance and realized how amateurish Chuck's bedmaking had been.

Ellie stepped closer to Chuck. "Do you trust her, Chuck, really trust her?"

Chuck glanced at Sarah and then nodded in answer. Ellie nodded back. "Okay. Tell me what's happened, and then I'll tell her the story."

* * *

A/N: One more chapter in the first arc. I'm enjoying this. Hope you are too.

Thoughts?


	12. The High Life

A/N: This chapter ends the first arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twelve: The High Life

* * *

8:30 pm, Sunday, November 7, 1965  
The Palmer House, Chicago  
Room 2022

* * *

Chuck motioned for Ellie to sit in the armchair by the bed.

She walked to it and sat down. Chuck sat on the bed and Sarah sat next to him. Again, Ellie gave Sarah a quick, grinning glance before her face became serious.

Chuck looked at his sister and then at Sarah.

Sarah could see him thinking as he looked at her: _Boyfriend?_ She had now said that twice, but she had not answered his question about it before they climbed the endless stairs to the room.

* * *

She had offered the word 'boyfriend' to Marlena in lieu of a name and had intended it as a dodge, nothing more.

But thinking about her dad and Marlena, and Marlena's remarks, made Sarah realize the word had come to her mind so readily for a reason: that was how she thought of Chuck or how she wanted to. She had known him for just a little over forty-eight hours and she thought of him, wanted to think of him, as her boyfriend.

She had never had one of those.

As she told Chuck, she had been with men, a few. But those had all been other CIA agents and the affairs, if that was the right word for them, had been brief. A few days, a week. She had liked each of the men and thought with each that more than liking him was, perhaps, possible, but it never occurred.

Her heart never responded, never felt anything deep for any of the men. And so, in each case, she had ended it if the mission did not. Predictably, gossip of that snaked through Langley, and the Ice Queen was declared even icier.

She had often wondered, alone on missions, or alone between missions, if it was possible for her to feel anything deep at all, if it was possible for her to want a man in a way that involved all of her in the wanting. Head and heart, body and soul.

She had believed the answer was _no_ until she turned on that stool in _Patel's. _

Since then, her heart had not only responded, it had usurped the place of her head in a rapid, complete palace _coup. _ She felt deeply. She was not in a hurry to label the feeling; she still feared that.

But she wanted to label him, Chuck. Boyfriend. And so she was his girlfriend.

She loved that.

* * *

Sarah smiled at Chuck and nodded _yes_ to his unspoken question.

_Boyfriend._

* * *

"Alright, Ellie. So, um, this morning...I went out to get some coffee and donuts. And I was walking along the street when a man stepped out of a doorway and jabbed a gun in my side.

Ellie went white.

Chuck went on. "A truck pulled to the curb and the man forced me into the cab. Then he made me put a bag over my head. We drove for a while and then they walked me to a room and took off the bag. I had been sitting there, guarded, for a long time when Sarah showed up. She used her...ah...detective skills and saved me. You should have seen it…" Chuck shifted his gaze to Sarah and it was full of admiration.

Ellie saw it. Her color returned and she laughed. "I told you, Sarah. He wasn't going to be intimidated by what you can do."

Sarah nodded. "No, I guess not."

Chuck told the story and Ellie listened, looking at Chuck but sneaking occasional increasingly awed glances at Sarah.

Chuck finished. "And so we climbed the steps up here and then...and then...we called you." Chuck's neck reddened.

Ellie cleared her throat. "Yes, you did." She glanced again at Sarah. "Thanks, Sarah. My brother got lucky...when he found you."

Sarah tried not to smile but she could not stop it. Ellie smiled back but then she remembered it was her turn to talk.

"I told you not to come out here, Chuck, not to get messed up in all of this. Obviously, there's more to the story, things you did prior to this morning.

"I want to hear all that, but I suspect it will make more sense to Sarah if I tell her what...you want me to tell her."

"Ellie," Sarah said, "I can keep a secret."

Chuck laughed. "She's like a professional at secret-keeping. And at silence." He addressed the first remark to his sister, the second to Sarah. His eyes caught hers and they fell into involuntary mutual memory, mutual staring.

A moment passed before Ellie coughed softly, politely. "So, should I leave — or should I tell her the story, Chuck?"

Chuck closed his eyes as if to stop his mental imagery. He gave Ellie a sheepish look but reached out and took Sarah's hand. "Tell her, please, El."

Ellie breathed deep. "This all started the summer after my second year of med school. Chuck was about to start his senior year at Stanford. I was at UCLA's medical school; I wanted...I want...to be a doctor. But that summer changed everything. _Suddenly, Last Summer, _sort of. Less dysfunctional." Ellie gave a sorrowful shrug.

"A couple of my girlfriends from college called me one day early in the summer and invited me to a beach party. One of my girlfriends had been working at the Samuel Goldwyn Studios in Hollywood. She'd landed a summer job as a production assistant. She was working on an Aidan Mill's film. She had gotten to know him a bit and, just for fun, she had invited him to the party.

"She never expected him to show up, but he did. Aidan Mills at our beach party." Ellie's eyes moistened. "It wasn't a big gathering, and, after the initial shock of him being there wore off, the party wore on. It was a great day, perfect California.

"Aidan came up and sat beside me as we lit the bonfire. We had met earlier but there was a circle of admirers around him, and although I certainly thought he was handsome, I really didn't think that much more about him, and I wasn't interested in becoming part of an _entourage_.

"But he sat down beside me as the sun sank and we began to talk. He was...different than I expected. Not so full of himself. Vulnerable in an unexpected way." Ellie stopped talking for a moment. "Anyway, we talked. And talked. Everyone else left except for a few couples making out on the edge of the bonfire's light.

"At dawn, he drove me home. It had been a great night but I expected nothing more from it. But he called me the next day, and we went out, and the next...Before I knew exactly how it happened, I was a movie star's girlfriend. A movie star was my boyfriend."

Sarah glanced at Chuck and squeezed his hand.

"My life got...strange. Aidan was great, great to me, but I realized he had been...wild...in the past. Lots of women, lots of parties. He had a mansion in the hills that had a scandalous reputation. I broke it off with him when I realized all of that...but he kept calling, dropping by. Eventually, I could see that he was trying to change, wanted to change.

"I let myself fall for him — and so for the rest of that summer, the real question was whether I would change him or he would change me. I let myself fall into the unreality of Hollywood for a while, the bizarre half-lives that movie stars live. The constant pretending, treating their off-camera lives as on-camera roles…" Ellie sighed and gave Sarah a pained look. "I don't know if you can imagine it…"

"Actually, Ellie, I can. All-too-well."

Ellie regarded Sarah for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Chuck looking at her too.

"Well, even as I tried to help him change, I got caught up in it all myself. I never imagined I would, never imagined that such a life could suck me in, but it did, glamour quicksand, for the rest of that summer. We...I..._did_ things that were not us...not me.

"By the end of the summer, I could feel...my wheels wobbling, coming off. I was going to lose myself. Crash and burn. So, I broke it off. Retreated from the hills back home. Found my life again. I missed Aidan — but I couldn't live like that. No more star-crossed eyes and cross-eyed stars.

"A few weeks later, Aidan came to see me. Repentant. He asked me if we could date again but like normal people. No more high life. We would stay out of the gossip rags, out of all the Hollywood...shit."

Ellie grimaced, then smiled gently. "As I said, I had missed Aidan a lot, even if I hadn't missed his life, and I eventually said yes. We dated. Movies, dinners, walks. We found ways to escape the paparazzi, the fans.

"He talked more. He was always secretive about his past but he finally told me a little. He had been an orphan, growing up in foster homes. Eventually running away. Living on his own, traveling west. Finally finding himself in LA — and getting discovered.

"He sold the house in the hills and bought a place outside the city, a place with some land around it, a large house but older, modest. The Hollywood crowd wasn't in a hurry to follow him out of the hills, so they stopped hounding us. Aidan became friends with Chuck." Ellie smiled at her brother and Chuck smiled back. "At Christmas time, he asked me to marry him and by then I was...lost in him entirely, heart over head. I said _yes_."

Sarah was now caught up in the story. She leaned toward Ellie a bit.

"Aidan was going to film a movie in England, _Great Expectations_, and he wanted me to go with him. I got a leave-of-absence from UCLA, we got married, and I went with him.

"We had three wonderful years. He really did change. I became his _de facto _manager. His career took off as he became more serious about his work, his acting. For a long time, he had been basically living off his smile and his broad shoulders," Ellie smirked to herself, "but it turned out he had real talent, and the kind of heart to make him a great actor.

"I said I was his _de facto _manager — but I should also say I didn't really handle his finances. We had professional accountants for that. I just advised him, helped him choose parts, make general financial decisions.

"He was rich and becoming richer, that much I knew. We were. A year went by, two, and I was so happy that I just never went back to med school. In the third year, we started talking about having a family. Everything seemed good. Better than good.

"But later in the third year, a shadow fell across Aidan, our marriage. Things were still good, but he became increasingly distracted. Evasive at times. I thought maybe he was...cheating. I asked Chuck to follow him, see what was going on."

Sarah glanced at Chuck. Chuck bit his lip. Ellie looked at him kindly and he took up the story.

"So I did. I followed him but nothing seemed to be going on. Except I saw him talking to this man, a man who seemed...I don't know...threatening. They met again a few days later. But that was the only thing that seemed out of place. I told Ellie."

Ellie started again. "So, I let it go, figuring Aidan would talk to me about it at some point. But then one day Chuck was at our house and he saw the man in the newspaper. He was an LA mobster, a very bad man. I confronted Aidan and he tried to shrug it off. Said he knew the man from the past, and that their meetings were just about the man getting autographed photos for his daughter."

"Aidan was filming a spy movie at the time, a serious one. More _The Spy Who Came in From the Cold _than…than..." Ellie looked at a loss and glanced at Chuck.

"...than _Thunderball,_" he said, finishing the thought and Ellie nodded, rolling her eyes a bit. "He always did his own stunts. Insisted. He liked that part of the job.

"He was doing a jump that day and the scaffolding they were using collapsed. Aidan went down with it and was...impaled...and crushed." Ellie's voice grew very soft and very small.

"Oh, Ellie," Sarah said, "I'm so sorry."

Ellie wiped her eyes. "It's okay. The worst of it is behind me now." She paused, breathed. "I inherited everything from Aidan and became a wealthy woman, a wealthy widow.

"I was his only relative. I became a bit of a recluse for a while, grief and lunatic fans both kept me indoors, away from people. Chuck was about the only person I saw for a long time.

"I was beginning to recover, get my feet back under me, to look toward the future, when a man...the man came to the house. It was the man in the paper, the man who had met with Aidan. He told me that Aidan owed the mob money, the mob in Chicago. The sum was outrageous, and Aidan had refused to pay. But, the man told me, I was going to pay, or they would make sure that people knew about Aidan's past. I didn't know what to say; I don't know, and still don't know, what they knew about Aidan's past, if anything. But it was...ominous.

"The man left and I called Chuck. He came and we talked. So far as we knew, so far as we could figure, the mob had nothing but IOUs, if that. They certainly had no _legally _binding documents. Chuck called the number the man left and told him that I was not paying them anything. Aidan was dead and although I wanted to protect his memory, I was not going to be blackmailed.

"We hoped that was going to be the end of it, and it was for a long time, but then the man showed up at the house, the front door. He had an envelope. I told him to leave and he shoved it at me. I took it and opened it."

Ellie stopped. Chuck got up took Ellie's hand in his. She looked up at him. "It's okay, Ellie, I trust Sarah. She has experience with...this sort of thing. She can help us."

"Ellie," Sarah said, her heart chilled, "what was in the envelope?"

"A still photograph, taken from 8mm movie film." Ellie stopped again.

"What was in the photograph?"

Ellie sighed. "I was. Me and Aidan. We had gotten tipsy, maybe more than tipsy, at a party he threw that first summer. Everyone left and we...went to the bedroom. Aidan got out the camera and he...talked me into...well, _you know_, for the camera. It was just for us. Aidan put it away. I knew we had it but we never watched it. I had forgotten it.

"And it was from that part of our time together we both were trying to put behind us. I had no idea how the man got it, but the photo was clear. We weren't doing anything we could be _arrested_ for, but we were surely..._in flagrante_…Very _in flagrante. _

"That man stood there in the doorway, leering at me, making sure I knew that he had not just seen me..._naked_ but seen me..._that way._

"He laughed and told me he would make sure the film got reproduced and...distributed...a stag film. He said it would be...lucrative since it featured a dead movie star, a...brunette whore...and was in color and sound."

"There was a number on the back of the still. I called it and talked to a man. It turned out to be Tony Accardo. He explained to me that to get the film I would have to pay him all that Aidan owed him, plus interest. I didn't know what to do, but then Chuck came up with the idea of trying to bargain, to sign over the money that Aidan's estate had coming for the last, most successful films he made. Aidan made good deals on his final films, insisting on a big cut of the back end for less upfront.

"So, Chuck insisted on coming out here and...formalizing...the agreement. I had the papers drawn up and Chuck brought them here."

Sarah was staring at the floor. She looked up, smiling gently at Ellie, who looked raw and vulnerable. "Ellie, is there any chance that what happened to Aidan, the fall, wasn't an accident?"

Ellie's eyes grew wide. "No. I mean, no one ever suggested that. The police investigated it. The studio too. Everyone agreed it was an accident." Ellie's face grew taut. "Do you think it wasn't an accident?"

"Well, I don't know, Ellie, but this story...Aidan refused the mob. They don't take that kindly, as you found out. They make...examples of such people. You never mentioned the mob visits to the police?"

Ellie shook her head. Chuck gave Ellie's hand a squeeze and rejoined Sarah on the bed.

Ellie put her hands, palms-together, between her knees, and stared at her thumbs. "So, Chuck, did you meet with Accardo?"

Chuck snuck a glance at Sarah from the corner of his eye. He nodded. "Yes, I met with him Friday afternoon at a place called The Green Mill."

"And he took what I offered, the percentage of the profits coming from Aidan's films?" Ellie asked.

Chuck nodded. "He signed. But then he took me for a ride…" Chuck told her about the trip to the warehouse, about Joe and the shooting contest. "I thought if I won he would maybe tear up the agreement, let you off the hook, just give me the film."

Sarah broke in. "So, that's why you tried to record the conversation? To blackmail Ellie's mob-boss blackmailer?"

Ellie stood up, her face immediately red. "Charles Irving Bartowski, what did you do?"

Chuck explained, then added glumly: "But it didn't work."

Sarah spoke. "What I heard Larkin say on the phone at _Moe's_ suggested that someone, probably Accardo, suspected you tried to record the conversation."

Sarah looked up at Ellie and Ellie sat back down. "Ellie, Chuck fired a gun in that warehouse. His fingerprints are on it. Do you know that a woman was murdered here Friday?"

"I saw that in the paper today. It's awful. But what does it have to do with…" Ellie's question slowed, died. She stared at her brother. "What did you _not_ tell me, Chuck?"

Wincing, Chuck answered. "Accardo suggested that I could get you off the hook, end the agreement, get the film, if I would kill a woman who was causing him trouble, a woman staying here. The woman who was murdered."

"Chuck, you…?"

"Of course not, Ellie!"

"Ellie," Sarah interjected softly, "of course Chuck didn't...But he did something...ill-advised. He tried to warn the woman. Maria Tomek. He found her body and was seen leaving the floor her room was on."

Ellie glared at Chuck. "Chuck, how can a man with such a huge brain manage to use so precious little of it at crucial moments?"

"Ellie, I…"

"So you try to double-cross a mob boss and then you allow him to make you his patsy?"

Chuck winced again.

"Ellie, we don't know that Chuck is or will be suspected. I've hidden him here mainly to make sure that Larkin and Accardo, since I take Larkin to be working for him, can't find Chuck. I don't know if the plan is to actually set Chuck up or if it is to blackmail you yet again, using Chuck to do it.

Sarah stood.

"I need you two to stay away from each other after this meeting. You are registered here under your name, Ellie. Larkin and Accardo may decide to start watching you. I can work out a system for you two to get messages to each other if that's necessary, but I hope it's not. This is going to be tricky enough to manage without having to worry about that.

"I'm going to try to figure this out, figure out what happened to Maria Tomek. Ellie, as far as you know, Chuck was supposed to be staying here and was supposed to meet you. You have no clue where he has gone. That's your story and I need you to keep to it, okay?"

Ellie gave Sarah a quick nod.

"Good. And Chuck, you are going to have to _stay in the room. _No TV, no radio, no phone. You can't call me and I can't call you. If there's an emergency, you can leave a message with the front desk. Just say that you are calling me for the Police Benevolence Fund and that you will call again. I will get back to you."

Chuck reached out for Sarah's hand. "So, you're leaving now?"

"Yes, I am going to see Ellie back to her floor and then I am going down to the lobby and to my office. I need to check on some things. I missed Carina, if she stopped by, but she was supposed to bring me some things. I also want to know that she's okay. I'll try to bring you something to read — and some peppermints."

"Is the ulcer bothering you again, Chuck?" Ellie asked, concerned.

"Not too bad."

"Chuck, what am I going to do with you?" His sister shook her head. "You are a magnet for trouble."

"Sorry, sis."

Ellie shook her head then gave him a hug. "Do what Sarah says, Chuck, and so will I."

"I mucked this all up, didn't I?"

"No, Chuck, you were brave, and you tried to help. I appreciate that more than you know. You're my hero."

Sarah peeked out the peephole as she heard Ellie and Chuck hugged again. They walked to her and Sarah turned, took Chuck's hand. "Remember, quiet."

He gave her that intimate smile and she felt herself blush.

"I can be quiet."

Sarah gave him a quick kiss and then led Ellie into the empty hall.

* * *

On the elevator, Sarah pushed the buttons for the eighth floor and the lobby. Ellie was looking at when she finished, as the doors closed.

"So, you and Chuck are sleeping together?" It was part question, mostly declaration.

Sarah almost jumped. It was the second time that day someone had asked her that question. She nodded. "Boyfriend."

"I'm not judging, Sarah. Just wondering. That's kind of quick, right? You strike me as the deliberate sort. Slow to...warm up."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "I do?"

Ellie shrugged. "I don't know if I can explain it, maybe it has something to do with your job, or maybe its something to do with the way you remind me of a couple of actresses I knew and liked but felt sorry for: never able to just be themselves, do or say what they wanted, always in character, always in front of a camera or prepared to be." Ellie's eyes narrowed at 'camera' and she blushed.

"You're right, Ellie. I am slow...normally...if I warm up at all. Chuck just...He just…I just..."

The elevator stopped at eight. Ellie nodded. "I know, I know. I see." Then suddenly Ellie was hugging Sarah as the doors opened. "Take care of him. Thank God, he's not just a magnet for trouble. He attracted you. And thank you, again."

"I'll find you tomorrow and let you know what's happening," Sarah said when she saw no one near. "And you're welcome, Ellie."

* * *

Sarah got out and walked into the lobby. It was more crowded than usual for a Sunday night without a show. Sarah saw several people reading the _Tribune_, others holding it. The Tomek article. People were stopping in to gawk, morbidly curious.

Robert was at the desk. He saw Sarah but did not react to her beyond a slight nod.

She stood and looked up at the high ceiling, the murals. She took a deep breath, thinking about the Friday morning just two days ago when she was riding the lobby and waiting for her coffee break. She had no idea what she was walking into.

And yet as breathless and overwhelmed as she felt, she felt warm all over. Happy.

Genuinely happy. That was crazy, given the precariousness of the situation, her livelihood and Chuck's life high up on the twentieth floor, propped up on eggshells.

The man she was calling her boyfriend was still someone about whom she knew little, who was from out of town, who was tied to a murder, who was mixed up with the mob, and who had an ulcer.

Sarah heard elevator doors open behind her. "Ah, Miss Walker."

She turned to face Norbert Davis. He had a book in his hand. "I was going to leave this at the desk for Mr. Bartowski, but now that I have found you, perhaps it would get to him more quickly if I gave it to you? I've finished." He extended the copy of Chandler's _Playback_.

Sarah froze. _What should I do?_ She took the book, making sure no one was paying any attention to them. "Thanks, Mr. Davis."

"Norbert, please."

"Thanks, Norbert. I should tell you that I am not a maid here. I am one of the hotel detectives. I was under a flag as a maid because of the murder."

Davis did not blink. "Ah, yes, yes, now that makes more sense. You as a maid seemed...wrongly cast. Well, I will keep your secret. Have you seen our friend, Mr. Bartowski?" Sarah was suddenly very aware of the intelligence in Davis' eyes.

"Yes, but he had to change hotels. — But I can get the book to him," She said and smiled.

"Delighted to hear that. That young man is smitten. — You know, that would make for an interesting novel. A beautiful hotel. A lovely female hotel detective. A guest, a handsome young man." He paused. "The young man's beautiful sister." Another pause. "And a murder."

Sarah tried not to react, other than to hold her smile. "Yes, that would be...interesting."

"Well, I am off. Some of my conference co-speakers are having a drink at Millers Pub and I am going to join them. I trust you will have an...interesting...evening." He gave her a warm smile and headed out of the lobby.

Sarah stood and looked down at the book. She stared at it for a minute, thinking about her conversation with Davis, then she walked to the desk. No one was there but Robert.

"Hey, Robert, did a friend of mine come by with something for me?"

Robert nodded. He went into the office and came out with a brown grocery bag, the top rolled down. As he handed it to her, Robert whispered. "Casey has been trying to find you. He called your place. He went home. You might want to call him."

Sara took the bag and nodded. She unrolled the top and looked inside. Clothes, underwear, shoes. Sarah had various hotel toiletries in her desk in the office. "Oh," Robert said, remembering something. He went back into the office and came out with a plastic shopping bag, the logo of a nearby woman's shop on it. "She left two bags. Sorry."

Sarah took the other. She opened it. Inside it was a skimpy piece of lingerie, red. Sarah shut the bag, glancing around her self-consciously. _Yes, Carina is getting to be more like her old self._ Sarah dropped _Playback _in the bag. Closing the bag, she headed for the stairs.

She needed to go to her office, call Carina, call Casey.

She needed to take a minute. The lingerie had fired her imagination. _Red. _

* * *

The office door was open when Sarah got there. Devon was seated at his desk, writing. He looked up at Sarah.

"Sarah! I was just making some notes. I was going to call you. I managed to have a long chat with Agent Rizzo, and I have a lot to tell you. Their investigation is heating up. They have a suspect. A man, a guest here actually, although he left this morning, Charles Bartowski. There's an APB out on him."

Sarah put her bags down on her desk. Devon walked to her, the piece of paper he'd been writing on in his hands.

She sank in her chair. "Turns out, Louisa talked to the guy this morning. She didn't realize it at the time, but she later realized he was likely the man she saw Friday evening, leaving the fifth floor. She told Zondra. And I guess the FBI discovered something in the room that links to Bartowski, although Zondra wouldn't tell me what it was. They backtracked him to the Blackmoor — that's where he was before he checked in here. Cool customer, taking a room in the hotel after murdering someone here…Cold.

"At the Blackmoor, they didn't find much. Except for his hat. He forgot it in his room. There was a bloodstain on the brim. — Isn't that weird?"

Sarah did not answer. The room had gone out-of-focus. She forced herself to breathe, took the bags from the desktop and put them in the large drawer. Her voice sounded far away to her when she spoke. "Yes, that's weird."

A noose was tightening — around her boyfriend, around her, around her heart.

Despite the constriction, her heart was thump-thump-thumping. She could barely hear her own thoughts. "Did they find a gun?"

Devon shook his head. "No, not yet."

* * *

A/N: So ends the first arc, _Sudden Thaw_. Thoughts?


	13. Complications

A/N: Chapter 12 closed the first arc, _Sudden Thaw_. This chapter introduces the second arc, _This Fevered Spring. _

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Thirteen: Complications

* * *

Sunday night, November 7, 1965  
The Palmer House Hotel

* * *

Devon repeated himself in Sarah's silence. "No, no gun, not yet."

"Good," Sarah said, then caught herself. "I mean, good that they are making progress, not that they haven't found the gun."

She took a deep breath, iced herself over, reaching inside for Agent Walker, Sarah Spook. _I don't call me that! Damn it, Casey._

Devon was contemplating her, his head slightly tilted. "Are you okay, Sarah? You seem, I don't know, different. — Are you feverish? You look flushed. Flu season out there, you know." He suddenly seemed like an aspiring med student. "Do you need some aspirin?"

"No," Sarah said, and heard the freeze in her voice. She had overcompensated.

Devon backed up half a step. "Right. Well, Casey wants you to call him."

Sarah nodded.

"I'm heading to the lobby. Agent Rizzo, Zondra, is going to have coffee with me on my break in a while. I'll see if she'll tell me more."

"Devon, thanks for being thoughtful, concerned. I'm just tired, off my game. I didn't mean to rebuff you like that."

He smiled. "I get it. Casey told me he's got you digging into this, working overtime. No harm, no foul."

He headed out of the office and Sarah went half-limp in her chair. _Chuck's hat, blood on the brim. New evidence. _

She picked up the phone and dialed the automat where Carina worked. "Hi, I'm hoping to speak to Carina Miller for just a second, is she there?"

The gruff male voice on the other end growled at her. "She's here, but she can't take a call while on the clock unless it's an emergency. This an emergency?"

Sarah had expected the response. She had just wanted to know that Carina was at work, safe. "Um, no, I guess not."'

Satisfied, she hung up the phone and dialed Casey's number. He was on the phone after one ring. "Casey, here."

"Casey, it's Sarah. You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah, look, damage control's been good. Good. The Tomek article, as you said, focused more on her legs than her life, and more on her legs than on the Palmer House. Not fair to her but better for us. We had gawkers in and out all day but no real blowback, so that's all good. Mr. Hilton's still pleased..."

"Right, good."

"But the FBI is onto something, Sarah. I don't know what, but they definitely have a suspect now. They wouldn't tell me who it is, though, but I'm almost certain it's a guest of the hotel, goddamn it."

Sarah breathed out slowly; she prepared to mince the truth.

"Yes, Casey, it is. A man named Bartowski, Chuck Bartowski. I had Devon work on Agent Rizzo and she told him a bit. Bartowski's room was on the eighth floor."

"Good plan, Sarah. So, what about this guy, this...Bartowski? I don't think I ever saw him, met him."

"I don't know, Casey. He had his things taken away by courier this morning. He's not been back on the eighth floor since. My gut tells me he's not the killer. But the FBI seems to think otherwise."

"So, he checked out? Was he a guest when Tomek got killed?"

"No, he checked in later, I think."

"Wow," Casey said with no admiration, "gutsy move. But, that's good news, good news that he checked in later and checked out fast. We can maybe keep him and the hotel distanced from one another."

Sarah thought of Chuck upstairs in 2022. "I hope so."

"Well, keep Devon on Rizzo. I mean...you know what I mean. Should I have Holbert come in tomorrow to do your day shift?"

"That'd be good. I will be around, but won't likely be able to ride the lobby or do corridor sweeps."

"I'll call him. Say, Andy, the bell boy, thought he saw that Jeff Barnes character outside the hotel today. I sent Holbert out to look but he could not see him anywhere. I just thought I would mention it. Tell Devon, will you?"

"I will."

"Thanks, Sarah. Keep at it. So far, this has broken mostly our way, given what happened, but I'd like to have put it behind us ASAP."

"Me too, Casey."

Casey hung up and so did Sarah. She put her hand palms-down on the desk, her fingers splayed, and took a slow breath, exhaled it, took another. She was concentrating on her breathing when she heard a voice.

"Trying to calm yourself, Sarah?"

It was Agent Rizzo, Zondra.

She looked as tired as Sarah felt, but Zondra's exhaustion did not cause her smirk to be underpowered. There was also a hint of something — suspicion? — in her smirking eyes.

Zondra grabbed the chair from Devon's desk and pulled it in front of Sarah's. She sat down and stared at Sarah, saying nothing.

Sarah stared back.

The staring went on until Zondra finally looked away, frowning. When she looked back, there was a new wariness in her.

"So, I've been talking to Robert, the desk clerk. He seems to think that you know a prior guest here, a man named Chuck Bartowski."

Sarah kept her face slack, Agent Walker talking to Agent Rizzo.

"Bartowski? Oh, yes, right, I did. I actually met him outside the hotel, at a diner. He sat down beside me and we talked for a minute while I drank my coffee. Later, he checked in here. I happened to run into him in the lobby just after he did."

Zondra bunched her lips on one side of her face. Sarah could see Zondra thinking fast, studying Sarah.

"So, what did you make of him? What did you talk about?"

"Why?"

"He's our primary suspect in the Tomek murder. — So?..."

Sarah shrugged lightly. "He was...cute-ish. He seemed sweet. He picked up my pen; it had fallen out of my purse. We chatted."

"So, he tried to pick _you _up too?"

"Actually, no, he didn't. We chatted. Just nothing, really. I think we talked about movies made from books. Then he paid for us both and left the diner. It was _Patel's. _Just up the street."

Sarah saw Zondra make a mental note. "And then you just _happened_ to bump into him when he checked in?"

"Yes, just so," Sarah said, her gaze hardening a bit, "I just happened to bump into him."

Sarah was now certain Zondra knew — Robert must have told her — that Chuck had asked her to coffee again. Sarah gave that information to Zondra. "He asked me to have coffee with him again."

Zondra leaned forward just a smidgen, but Sarah registered it. "What did you say?"

"I was...non-committal."

Zondra leaned back almost imperceptibly.

"So, you didn't have coffee with him again?"

"Actually, I did. We went to The Accordion Bakery. It's close too. He thought I was a maid here and I didn't correct him."

Zondra furrowed her brow. "Why not?"

"I don't like to let guests in on what I do, it's against policy, and since I didn't plan to see him again, I didn't see any reason to tell him."

"You didn't like him?"

Sarah forced a smirk of her own. "You know how it is. So many men. Most of the time, there's just no spark, nothing worth pursuing."

Zondra nodded, her gaze pensive for just a second or two before she refocused. "Right, I get it. Guys on the make."

"Yes. But, no, he really wasn't on the make. Not either time. Although I did see him once more. At the Josh White show, Saturday night, here. He asked me to dance and we danced one dance. And that was that.

"I was there with my roommate: she's a big blues fan."

"Did Bartowski mention Maria Tomek to you?"

"No, never. At the bakery we talked about polkas, believe it or not." Sarah made herself frown instead of smile at the unbidden audible memory. _Tic-Toc_.

"Books, movies and polkas. Well, I can see why the guy has no steady girlfriend."

Zondra reached into her jacket and pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open.

"I've been on the phone with FBI folks out west, in LA. They've been beating the bushes."

She read from a page, punctuating the reading by quick glances at Sarah.

"Bartowski is a Stanford graduate. Graduated smart, evidently. Professors expected him to go to graduate school there, computers.

"But something happened his senior year. He graduated but did not apply to Stanford's graduate program or any graduate program.

"Still, he got a job with a California satellite of Computer Control Systems. Some kind of research. He's worked for them for a while — evidently a harmless drudge. Dates, no steady girlfriends. A little money in the bank, but not enough to raise an eyebrow at."

Zondra glanced up at Sarah and slowed down. "He has a sister, a widow, Eleanor Mills. She was married to Aidan Mills, the heartthrob movie star. She's got money. You know who he was?"

"No," Sarah said, "I don't see many movies. I read."

"And talk about polkas, I guess."

Shrugging, Sarah echoed Zondra. "I guess."

Zondra put the notebook away.

Sarah was not sure why Zondra had shared all of that, beyond Zondra's obvious interest in gauging Sarah's reactions. Sarah knew she had kept herself neutral; the hint of suspicion in Zondra's eyes had become a hint of frustration.

"So, here's food for thought. Mills' widow, Bartowski's sister, checked in here. She's on the eighth floor. Does that strike you as odd?"

Sarah took a moment. "No, should it?"

Zondra's hint of frustration became more than a hint, as it moved from her gaze to her tone. "You're supposed to be a detective, _house dick_, right?"

Sarah nodded but said nothing; she let the _dick _line go.

Zondra huffed and stood up. "Look, I talked to Louisa. I know that before Bartowski left here he asked her about you and she told him you were not a maid, but rather the hotel detective. That news seemed to affect Bartowski, but I don't know exactly how.

"My best guess is that finding out about you is what scared him out of the hotel. He must have thought you suspected him, were...working...him. But you tell me that's not so; you just had coffee and that was that. So, you didn't have that second coffee with him as the Palmer House detective?"

"No, I just went because I was...curious. I thought I might like him but I didn't, not, you know, like _that_.

"But tell me, Agent Rizzo, why would a murderer come back to the scene of the crime? That's crazy stuff that happens in detective novels, but not in real life. And why would he be taking out a maid for donuts in the shadow of the murder? That doesn't strike _you_ as odd?"

Zondra's shoulders tensed. "Look, Walker. This is my investigation. Keep your nose out of it. I've had some folks beating bushes where you're concerned too, but they haven't had a lot of time. Still — before you got to Chicago, it's almost like you didn't exist. Why is that?"

Sarah brazened it out. "Just kept my nose clean, I suppose. Not much to tell."

She stared into Zondra's eyes. Again, Zondra looked away. _If she knows anything about me, about the CIA, she's not going to play that card yet. _

"Well, if Bartowski makes contact with you, let me know. Do not make me arrest you for interfering in a federal investigation. You learn anything, it comes to me — immediately. Is that clear?" Sarah saw Zondra's hands become fists as she spoke.

"And do not share information with that decoy-duck police detective, Shaw. He has been told this is a federal case but he keeps trying to horn in."

"Sure, Agent Rizzo. I have no intention of getting in your way. I still haven't even met this Shaw."

Zondra stood for a moment longer. Then she frowned at Sarah. "No loss. Be sure you _don't _get in my way, Walker, or I'll _bulldoze_ you under. I really can be a bitch.

"I'm going to talk to Sister Bartowski, Widow Mills." Zondra glared at Sarah — and this time Sarah let Zondra win, made herself look away.

Zondra left without a backward glance. When her footfalls were distant, Sarah blew out a breath and grabbed the phone. _This is getting complicated. Really complicated. _

Sarah dialed in-house, quickly.

"Hello?" Ellie's voice was soft.

"Sarah, Ellie. Look, I can't talk for long. The FBI agent in charge of the Tomek murder is on her way to talk to you. She suspects Chuck. They found his hat at the Blackmoor and there was blood on the brim. It must have gotten there off the cuff of his suit."

"Have they found the gun?"

_Smart woman. _"No, Ellie, they haven't. But they did find something in Tomek's room, something they take to link her to Chuck — maybe to you too. I don't know.

"Remember, you came to see Chuck, to take in a little Chicago with your brother, and he wasn't here. You haven't seen him. Try to tell the truth or as near to the truth as you can, without giving Chuck away. She'll want to know why Chuck came all this way, LA to Chicago. You'll need a story."

Ellie was silent for a moment. "Vacation. Chuck's never taken one. Can I tell her that?"

"Sure," Sarah said, speaking quickly, "but why here, why Chicago?"

"He wanted to see snow and had always wanted to visit the city. Those are both actually true, Sarah, even if they weren't his primary motivation."

"Okay, well, stick to that. You came to spend some of his vacation with him. — Can you do this, Ellie, _lie_ to an FBI agent? We need to keep Chuck out of sight until I can figure this out."

"Your boyfriend is not just my brother, Sarah. I sort of _raised him_ after Mom and Dad...well, after we lost them. Yeah, Sarah, I can do it."

"Okay. I will try to contact you again later, before you go to sleep."

"Bye, Sarah."

Bye, Ellie."

* * *

Sarah put down the phone.

Everything was in motion around her, like a chess game being played on 25 boards, one for each Palmer House floor. Sarah had castled her king. But how long could the castle hold? So many pieces. Rizzo, Lakoff, Larkin, Accardo.

Maria Tomek.

Sarah got up and headed to the elevator. She took it up to the ninth floor, heading to 996, the US Grant room, the room Rizzo and Lakoff were staying in. She got off the elevator and walked softly to the door. She knocked, hoping for no answer.

There was none.

She scanned the hall. A woman got on the elevator, unconcerned with Sarah, and the doors closed. Sarah took out her skeleton key and opened the door to the room as silently as possible. The room was dark. If Lakoff was there, he must be sleeping — but she heard nothing. She slipped in the door and stood still. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She still heard no sound in the room.

She walked to one of the bedroom doors that adjoined the main living area of the suite. She looked inside. The bed was made. There was a faint hint of perfume and Sarah recognized it. Zondra's room.

She crossed to the bedroom on the opposite side, moving like the ghost she had once been. The door was closed. She listened. No sound. She opened the door and looked inside. Another made bed but with a man's suit thrown haphazardly upon it. Empty.

She walked to the table in the middle of the suite. Stacks of papers were on it and two phones. At the center of the desk, between the phones, was a single piece of paper. Sarah memorized its position and picked it up. It was a Xerox copy of something handwritten.

She carried it to the window — then froze.

Footsteps in the hallway.

They passed the door. Sarah glanced up at the portrait of President Grant on the wall; she sighed at him in relief.

Sarah angled the Xerox to expose it to the weak street light from the window. It was a letter to Maria Tomek. Sarah looked immediately from the salutation, _Dearest Maria_, to the signature at the bottom: _Love, Aidan. _

Sarah gasped soundlessly. _Aidan?_

More footsteps.

They did not pass.

Heavy, they stopped at the door. Sarah glided to the table and put the paper down where it had been.

A key in the lock. The footsteps had been too heavy to be Zondra's. Agent Lakoff.

Sarah floated silently to Zondra's room, pushing the door partially closed as Lakoff opened the door and flicked on the light.

Sarah ducked into the closet.

She heard Lakoff sigh himself, weary. She heard him cross the room and then pick up one of the phones, heard the rotary dial spinning.

"Hey," Lakoff rasped, "it's me. What do you have for me?"

There was a long silence. "Okay. Yes, I think we'll be here, in the hotel, for another day or two at least. I know, I know. Right, Bartowski is our suspect. We've got enough to detain him already. I'll make sure things go the way we want. Yeah, Rizzo's a pain in the ass, as usual. But I will keep her on a leash. Yeah, yeah, right. Bye."

Lakoff put the receiver in the cradle. He began to whistle tunelessly to himself. She heard him pick up the phone and dial again. In-house. "When does the bar close? Okay, thanks." Again, he put the receiver in the cradle.

He went into his room and was in it for an eternity upon an eternity, maybe ten minutes.

Finally, she heard him leave his room. A moment later the light went out and Sarah heard the door open and close. She counted sixty to herself, then left the closet and Zondra's room. She peeked out of the peep-hole. Lakoff was gone. She left the room and took the stairs down to the basement. There had been no time to look at the letter again. Sarah's internal clock told her Zondra was going to show up soon.

_Dearest Maria. Love, Aidan. _What was going on?

* * *

Sarah opened her office and found Devon seated at his desk. He was staring blankly. It took him a second to notice her.

Sarah spoke. "I thought you were going to have coffee with Agent Rizzo on your break, Devon."

The words did not seem to register.

"Say, Sarah, did you know that there is an angel in the hotel?"

"There is?"

"In the flesh, or whatever angels are made of. Quintessence, maybe." He shrugged, mesmerized. "I ran into her, the angel." His eyes filmed over, dreamy.

"I was doing a corridor check on the eighth floor and I heard crying. A door was partially open. I knocked and this woman...this amazing woman...opened the door. She stood up straight and wiped her eyes. I introduced myself," he gave Sarah a sheepish look, "and I told her who I was, one of the hotel detectives. She nodded — and I asked what was wrong. She said she couldn't tell me but that I was sweet to ask. She kissed my cheek.

"She closed her door and I just stood there for a minute. Then I came down here to...clear my head. It was...a visitation. An angel." Devon's face was glowing.

"Was she in 845?" Sarah knew the answer: more complications.

"Yes, do you know who she is?"

"Her name is Ellie Mills. She's Chuck Bartowski's sister. The sister of Zondra's suspect. Zondra went up to see her, to question her, and must have left before you got there."

A flash of anger crossed Devon's face. "Zondra made her, Ellie, cry?"

"I'm guessing she did. But maybe it's just the fix her brother seems to be in."

"We need to help her, Sarah. Ellie. There's _no way _that woman is the sister of a murderer. If she's an angel, he must be too."

Involuntarily, Sarah glanced up, as if she could see through the twenty floors to Chuck. _He is. My angel._

"Are you sure you want to help her, Devon?"

He nodded. Sarah closed the door and locked it. "Okay…"

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?


	14. Surrender to Victory

A/N: Still introducing the second arc, _This Fevered Spring, _and it here takes on a more determinate shape. The next chapter will take us into the action of the arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Fourteen: Surrender to Victory

* * *

Sarah sat down at her desk and Devon picked up his chair and turned it to her. He sat down and absently rubbed his bad knee, waiting, concentrating on Sarah.

She started on Friday at _Patel's. _She told Devon what she had done and suspected and discovered in the order in which it had all happened. Devon's mobile face went through myriad changes as she talked, but surprise dominated his expression.

It helped her to hear it out loud, in her own voice, to hear it all described, as she might have described them in a CIA situation report.

Of course, such a report would have been emotionally unsaturated, a bare recounting. What she told Devon was not that. It was saturated in emotion, as she was as she re-told it. She left parts out, of course: her lovemaking with Chuck (admittedly implied by the events she did relate) and the precise nature of Ellie's plight (Ellie's story to tell — Sarah agreed with Chuck about that). But otherwise, she told him all of it, including Morgan's role in hiding Chuck.

As she told Devon, she saw herself in the vortex of the weekend: her immediate reaction to Chuck, her inability to shake it, him, even though their first meeting had been all-too-brief. Her upsurge of excitement, clear to Robert evidently, when Chuck showed up at the Palmer House. And that moment of contact, deep contact, eye-to-eye at The Accordion Bakery, during the _Tic-Toc Polka_. Then the dance together to Josh White's instrumental, the kiss, desire-produced and desire-producing, and utter rout of Sarah's shaky resistance, her sudden but inevitable (it now seemed) and complete surrender in Chuck's room.

A complete surrender that had proven to be the sweetest victory of her life. She had come to herself, come home to herself.

A comment of Chuck's came back to her, what he said to her when he saw her in the maid's uniform. "I never met a woman equal to wearing the sky." Sarah's heart soared. She could not articulate what it was that Chuck Bartowski did to her — but she felt it in every inch of her. And she had felt it even at _Patel's. _

The closest she could come to articulating it was to say Chuck made her feel _real_. For so long, most of her remembered life, she had felt fake, artificial.

A _simulacrum_ of a woman. A _persona, _not a person.

Real. Not fake, artificial.

And sheltered. Not alone, exposed. That was the other thing.

Even though she was the one with the Farm training, the experience, the deadly skills, the knives, and the guns, Chuck made _her_ feel sheltered, safe.

When he looked at her, she was fully present in his gaze, sunlit, not lost in shifting shadows. Warm, not cold. Herself. Even with the brunette hair dye and the fake glasses. No one she could remember had made her feel like that.

From the moment she turned to face him in _Patel's_, he had..._transmuted._..her, changed her nature, or what she had taken to be her nature, revealing another.

She was still finding her way, finding herself, and in the midst of a maelstrom, Shakespeare's Lear on the heath.

She attended again to Devon. His surprise had slowly reshaped itself into resolve as she spoke.

But before Devon could comment on what Sarah told him, there was a soft knock on the door. Sarah crossed the room and opened it. Morgan stood in the hallway, a paper bag in one hand.

"Morgan, what are you doing here at this hour? Robert's at the desk, right?"

Morgan nodded and entered. Sarah shut the door and locked it again.

"I was worried — about you, about Chuck. Everything. I couldn't sleep. So, I brought some food. I don't know if Chuck's eaten, or if you have."

"No, Morgan, neither of us have eaten — not since the afternoon. And that was just a half a cruller apiece."

Morgan held up the bag. "Two turkey subs all the way, and chips.."

Sarah's mouth watered. She was starving but had not realized it. "Thanks, Morgan. I was just reading Devon in on the whole situation. He's decided to throw in on...Team Bartowski. — You have, haven't you, Devon?"

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "If you and Morgan are in, I'm in. I'll run your risks. Besides, she kissed me…"

Morgan gave Devon then Sarah a questioning glance.

"Chuck's sister, Ellie. Devon ran into her, upset, — we think because of Agent Rizzo, Chuck is now officially the FBI suspect in the Tomek murder — and Devon comforted her. She kissed his cheek in thanks."

Morgan shifted his eyes back to Devon. "She's sure a beautiful woman, Devon. I can see how she could create a certain...obsession."

Devon blushed but nodded. He gestured toward Sarah with his head and shoulder. "I'm not the only one with a...Bartowski...obsession."

Sarah smiled at Devon. "It was that obvious, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but I knew something was up, even on Friday. I'd never seen you...preoccupied before."

Sarah held out her hand to Morgan. He gave her the bag.

"Thanks for this, Morgan. Now, go home. You'll have to be back here in a few hours as it is."

Morgan nodded. "Okay. Good luck, Sarah."

"Thanks. I'm going to stop by Ellie's room, Devon, then go up to Chuck's room." Sarah got the bag of her clothes and the bag with Carina's gift from her desk.

Devon stood up. "Tell...Ellie...I hope she's feeling better."

Sarah nodded at Devon as she unlocked the door and left the office.

Despite her exhaustion, Sarah climbed the stairs to the eighth floor. The stairwell was cold, the stairs grey. She wanted nothing more than to get to 2022, to get to Chuck. She climbed.

When she got to the eighth floor, the hallway was empty. She knocked on Ellie's door and heard Ellie's voice. "Yes?"

"It's me, Ellie."

Ellie opened the door and Sarah quickly stepped inside.

* * *

Sarah saw immediately that Ellie had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot. She looked pale otherwise, wan. Standing there in her bare feet, wrapped in a white Palmer House robe, she looked little like the rich and elegant young woman of the lobby from mere hours ago.

She noticed the bags in Sarah's hand. "Been shopping?" Ellie laughed as she spoke but her heart was not in it. Sarah realized that the bag Ellie could best see was the one with Carina's gift inside.

"Um, no, my...my roommate brought me some things. I haven't been home since...Saturday evening and...I...well…"

"You're not planning to go home tonight."

Sarah shook her head while not quite looking at Ellie.

"We've covered this, Sarah. Nothing to be self-conscious about, especially not around me, given what...given what you now know about me."

Sarah met Ellie's eyes. "Ellie, you were taken advantage of. You perhaps were ...imprudent, but you, you and Aidan, didn't do anything wrong."

Ellie walked to the bed and sat down on the side of it. "Imprudent is a very...tactful word, Sarah. Thanks for it. But we should have destroyed that tape. We should never have made it. We…"

"Ellie, really. Don't worry about that with me."

"And don't you worry about making my brother happy — and yourself — with me. I couldn't be happier for Chuck, although only Chuck could manage to find the one in the midst of making such a complete mess."

Sarah stopped breathing for a second. _The one? The one? _

"_What_ did you say, Ellie?"

Ellie had looked down at the belt on her robe, and was tightening it. She finished and looked up at Sarah. "I said 'the one', Sarah. I don't want to freak you out, but I know my brother — better than he knows himself often. The way he looks at you, says your name…You two can, of course, take your time figuring it all out," Ellie smirked a little and a dab of color returned to her cheeks, "but your not-knowing doesn't keep me from knowing what I know."

"And what's that?"

"That you two have each found _the one_."

Sarah was unsure how to respond to that. She was still processing 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' despite the fact that she was the one to start the use of the terms. She did not know if Ellie was right, but she did not know that Ellie was wrong. She did not know, she just...felt what she felt.

Real. Sheltered. _The one? _

— She could figure that out later.

"Ellie, did Agent Rizzo upset you?"

Ellie's eyes flared, her nostrils too. Then she slumped. "Yes, but, ….It wasn't just her, that. It was everything. I was worried about Chuck coming out here. Even more worried after he left. So worried I could not stay even though he did not want me to come.

"And then I get here and can't find him. I held it together; I kept hoping he'd just gone out sight-seeing and forgot my arrival. That's a Chuck thing. But then you came by and I...began to worry even more because I could tell you were...worried."

Ellie wiped at her eyes. "Telling you that story earlier, not just the part about the film and all, but the whole thing, it made me..._sad_ again. I did love him, Aidan. I really loved him, Sarah. Telling that story was a little like losing him again. It wasn't just shame that made it hard to tell. Grief creates silence too. Some keening is never vocalized."

Sarah thought of Carina, her loss of Doug, her struggle.

Sarah made herself speak. "My roommate. She lost her...I guess he was her _boyfriend_, you'd say, although they never used such words, or she didn't. Doesn't. He was a policeman, killed in the line of duty. They hadn't been together long but it took so much out of her.

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I have some sense of what you must be going through." The thought of losing Chuck swamped her and made Sarah's chest ache.

She walked to the bed and sat down beside Ellie, putting her bags down. She gave Ellie a hug, holding her tight.

When the hug ended, Ellie gave Sarah a weak smile. "Thanks, Sarah. And, next time, I'll be ready for Agent Rizzo."

"What did she tell you?" Sarah was thinking of the Xeroxed letter she'd seen, wondering if Zondra had mentioned it.

"She told me what you said she would. That my brother was a suspect in that woman's murder, Tomek's murder, and she wanted to know where he was. I told her I had no idea. I expected to find him here. Actually," Ellie grinned a bit, "my weakened state probably helped because I did seem like a sister with a lost brother. She kept asking me about the Tomek woman, Maria. She kept implying that Chuck knew Maria or that I did." Ellie shook her head. "I never even heard the name before today, Sarah."

Sarah nodded. She saw the Sunday Tribune on the coffee table and she reached for it. She pointed to the picture of Maria Tomek. "So, you've never seen her. I know you don't know her name, but what about her?"

Ellie looked at the picture for a long, silent moment. She wiped at her eyes once more and looked again. "You know, she does look vaguely familiar. But I can't place her. I'm almost sure I never met her. I don't know how I would know her."

"Sorry, Ellie, but if Agent Rizzo was interested, there must be a reason." Sarah decided not to reveal the letter just yet. Ellie had faced enough for one day. "Are you sure you never saw her, say, at one of Aidan's parties, saw her in the hills?"

Ellie looked a third time. "No. As I said, she's familiar. Maybe I've seen her in another photograph?"

"Maybe. Keep thinking about it, okay?"

Ellie gave her a nod. "Sure. Is it important?"

"It might be. So, did Rizzo say anything else?"

"Not really. She just kept harping on where Chuck might be, about what would happen if I knew and didn't tell her. She made it clear when she left that I was under suspicion too. Not a suspect, officially, but on the edge of it." Ellie stopped. Then she started again. "Oh, your...colleague, I guess, Devon?...he found me up here, crying in the wake of Agent Rizzo. He was really kind to me, Sarah. Thank him for me."

"He told me to tell you he hopes you are feeling better."

Ellie smiled. "He seems like a nice man. Good to have someone like that to work with, I'm guessing."

"Yes, he's been one of the reasons I've liked my job. And he is working with us, Ellie. He's in on...Room 2022."

"You trust him?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I really do."

Ellie nodded too. "Good. So, it's you and me and...and Devon."

"And Morgan, the desk clerk. That's who we've got."

"Who do you think killed Tomek, Sarah? Was it Accardo?"

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't pull the trigger. I'm guessing his friend, Joe, The Clown, did it. Accardo doesn't do the dirty work anymore. — Anyway, that's my working theory.

"But what puzzles me is why they did it, as they did it, and why Maria Tomek, hiding from the Chicago mob in California, comes back to Chicago and takes a motel room under her own name. It's like she put a target on her back. But why? Why come back here?"

Ellie shrugged. "That is strange. Why was she hiding?"

"She and her boyfriend, another mob baddy, evidently have books that contain information that the Chicago Outfit, Accardo, does not want to become public. Her boyfriend, Manny Sklar, was killed by the mob — although no one's proven it yet — back in September. That makes Maria's actions even less transparent. What was that woman doing?"

"Maybe the obvious, Sarah? Maybe the books are here, in Chicago, somewhere. And maybe she was more showgirl than mob darling, not...savvy...maybe she just registered under her own name without thinking about it?"

"Maybe. But that seems too careless, too sloppy. I need to talk to the desk clerk who checked her in. No doubt Rizzo's done that, but maybe I can find something she missed."

"You're good at this, Sarah." Ellie's glance became shrewd. "What did Chuck mean when he said you were a professional secret-keeper?"

"I wasn't always a hotel detective, Ellie. Before this, I worked for the CIA."

Ellie blinked. Once, twice, three times. "A spy." She whispered it like a shibboleth.

"Yes, and just so you know, I've done things...I'm not proud of either. Even before the CIA."

"You quit the CIA?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because I was losing the little sense I had of who I was. Let's put it this way. Someone might decide to become a spy for noble reasons, but spying is not ennobling. Not close. Just the opposite. It deadens you. I had a bad experience at the Farm and it finished me." Sarah's throat closed around the last three words, making her sound hoarse.

"The Farm?"

"Spy school." Sarah cleared her throat. " In Virginia."

Ellie waited for a moment but Sarah was not up to that story. "Maybe I will tell you a little about it sometime."

"So, my brother's new girlfriend is a former spy, now a hotel detective?"

Sarah felt the memory of the Farm, the interrogation training, leaving her. She shook herself gently, grinned slowly. "Too much?"

"For Chuck, no. You're perfect for my brother. Although I wouldn't have known that before I met you."

Sarah did not mean to ask but the question was out before she could refuse it. Zondra had planted it. "Has Chuck had a lot of girlfriends?"

Ellie chuckled. "Ah, questions about Chuck's past. Girlfriends? No, not really. One, I suppose. A woman he dated at Stanford. They were serious, or Chuck was. But she left school, sort of vanished, over Christmas break Chuck's senior year. She was a year behind him.

"I don't think he's been in contact with her since. I don't know if he has any idea where she went or where she is. I never liked her from the beginning, I hate to admit, but especially not after she vanished like that. Her leaving made Chuck cautious, closed-off, around women. Untrusting. Until you.

"He's dated a little the last few years but I can't think of any woman he went out with more than once or twice. And I should know, since I arranged many of the dates, hoping he'd find someone. I had almost given up. Hell, Aidan even set him up a time or two, co-starlets, you know, but...nothing. "

Ellie tilted her head. "What about you, Sarah, if you don't mind me asking?"

Sarah ducked her head. "No, I don't mind but...there's not much to tell."

Ellie widened her eyes jokingly. "You aren't implying those Bond films are inaccurate representations of spying, are you? That your life wasn't a gender-reversed..._Thunderball_?"

"Um, no. No. There were a few men...but your brother is my first boyfriend."

"Beginner's luck?" Ellie bumped Sarah's shoulder with her own.

"Something like that," Sarah responded, laughing. "Speaking of, I had better sneak up to the twentieth floor. I have some food here for Chuck."

Ellie glanced at the bags again. "And a _little_ something else?"

Sarah grinned, embarrassed. "A gift from my roommate. For me and Chuck. But not tonight. It's been the longest day — ever."

"Yes, it has. Give him a hug from me, okay."

"Okay."

* * *

Sarah went out into the empty hallway and got on the empty elevator when it opened. No one else got on. The twentieth-floor hallway was also empty; Sarah walked quickly to Chuck's door. She had her skeleton key out already and she was inside quickly.

No light was on. Sarah stood in the dark. She heard Chuck's voice. "Sarah?"

"Yes, Chuck, it's me."

"Can we turn on a light?"

"Are the shades down?"

"Yes, they are."

"Okay."

The lamp by the bed clicked on and she could see her boyfriend. His hair was mussed, his grin lopsided, and she felt herself swoon.

_Swoon_.

Self-discovery.

'Swoon': not one of her words — or so she thought. She walked to the bed and separated the bag of sandwiches from the other bags. "Are you hungry?"

Chuck's grin grew impish, suggestive. "Is that a trick question?"

She mirrored his grin. "No, I'm too tired for...that...as much as I want that. Morgan brought us sandwiches."

Chuck pointed at the logo on the side of the bag. "Lou's Deli? Never saw that."

Sarah looked at it. "Me, either. But Morgan has some kind of swallow-to-Capistrano thing where inexpensive eats are concerned. If he goes there, you can bet it's good. And has sandwiches under thirty-cents. He's big on the thirty-cent barrier."

Chuck scooted down, the blanket falling away from him, revealing him in just his boxers. Sarah felt swoony again. She sat down and handed one wax-paper wrapped sandwich to Chuck and took the other for herself.

"The thirty-cent barrier?" Chuck laughed. "You must know Morgan pretty well."

Sarah opened her sandwich and took a bite. "God, that's so good. — You know, until today I would have said Morgan and I didn't know each other, weren't friends. We got along, sure, talked now and then, but I guess my default setting has been CIA for so long, I just never noticed that we were...had become...that we are, friends. — Contacts. I guess I think of people as contacts, even when they aren't." She smiled at herself, at Chuck. "I seem to have more friends than I knew. Devon Woodcomb, the other house detective, is with us now, Chuck, he knows about you. And I'm afraid he's crushing on your sister. Bad."

Chuck stopped chewing at that. He gave Sarah an odd, narrow-eyed look. "Bad, huh? Is he a good guy?"

"He is."

Chuck relaxed his expression. "Well, then good. She told her story like it was a fluke that Aidan Mills fell for her at that beach party, but you've _met_ her. She's beautiful and brilliant and full of heart. Who wouldn't fall for her, including a movie star?"

"She is beautiful, Chuck. I admire her already. I love her clothes, her dark hair."

Chuck stopped just before taking another bite. "Your hair is basically the same color, Sarah."

"No, the _box_ I use is basically the same color. I am," she looked away, "as perhaps you've noticed but been too kind to mention," she looked back, "a blonde. I changed my hair color," she took off her glasses, "and added these to get the job here. Casey thought I was too much of a lighthouse as a blonde without glasses. No anonymity, no being beneath-notice in the lobby."

"You are a lighthouse by nature, Sarah, blonde or brunette. And those eyes of yours…" he started to lean toward her and Sarah toward him. She braked the motion.

"Eat, Chuck. Eat and sleep. We can't live on love."

They both went statue-still, silent. The word reverberated in the lamp-lit room, filling it, echoing: _Love_. Love. Love...

.Chuck swallowed hard. "So, you're right. A great sandwich."

Sarah nodded quickly. "It is. There are chips too. Want some?"

"Please." They went on eating.

When they finished and she threw the papers away, Sarah sat down on the end of the bed. "I thought I'd let you eat before I start in on the bad news."

Chuck bit his lip. "I figured there was bad news, since you were gone so long."

She let herself lean toward him for a quick kiss. "Sorry about that. I missed you too."

"So?"

"So, you are now the FBI's suspect in the murder of Maria Tomek."

Chuck paled. He was silent for a long time. He cleared his throat. "I guess I knew that was coming. You did. Ellie did. Have they found the gun?"

"No. But the maid who saw you leave the fifth floor after you visited Tomek's room is the maid you saw on the elevator this morning. Later, after thinking about it, I guess, she told the FBI agent, a woman named Rizzo, that she thought you were the same man. But, even worse, the FBI found something in Maria's room that they take to give you motive."

Chuck looked blank. "What could that be?"

"I think it was a letter."

"Rizzo told you?"

"No, I...frisco-ed their room, the FBI's."

"Frisco-ed? Oh, frisk, right. — Jesus, Sarah, you're going to get arrested."

"Former spy, Chuck, remember. I have skills."

"Yes, you do. So, a letter?"

"A letter from Aidan Mills to Maria Tomek. I saw the opening and closing but had no time to...read between those lines, notice the date. His name threw me, distracted me. —Did Aidan ever mention Maria to you?"

Chuck shook his head sharply. "No. Not that I can remember. Was it...a love letter?" He looked afraid for his sister.

"I don't know. It ended _Love, Aidan. _ Rizzo's partner, Lakoff, came in and interrupted my search."

"Did he see you?"

"No, but I heard him. He dialed out of the hotel, now that I think of it. Talked to someone. I think Lakoff is not on the up-and-up, and I don't think Rizzo knows it."

"So, there are two FBI agents after me, and one is...a double-agent?"

The term made Sarah close her eyes for a second. She had told Casey she was going to become a double-agent, and she had, but Chuck had become the first of her priorities, not the Palmer House. Even if she could get Chuck out of the mess he was in, she was likely going to get fired. Rizzo would probably arrest her just for spite, if for nothing else.

— She would think about that later too.

"When you followed Aidan, the times he met with the mobster, you're sure that Maria wasn't around, that you didn't see her."

Chuck studied the tan blanket on the bed. "As sure as I can be. She did look familiar, but it didn't register in the shock of finding her like that. But I don't know. I can't remember meeting her, that's for sure, and I don't recall ever even seeing her." He gave a shrug, frowned.

"Keep thinking about it. Ellie thought Maria looked familiar too, thought maybe she had seen a photograph of Maria somewhere. Could that be how you saw her too?"

Chuck grew pensive. "I don't know, Sarah. Maybe." He looked at her, took her hand. "What are we going to do, Sarah?"

"We're going to bed, going to snuggle together, and I'll give you the hug Ellie sends you, and then we'll get some sleep, Chuck. In the morning, I am going to test the chain by testing its weakest link."

She kicked off her shoes and picked up the bag of clothes Carina brought from the apartment. She had seen a t-shirt inside it, one she could sleep in. She picked up the other bag too.

She would hide that bag until she had a chance to share herself and its red contents with her boyfriend. She dug out the copy of _Playback, _careful not to expose the lingerie, and handed the book to Chuck. "With Norbert's compliments. Ran into him. I figured you could use something to read." Chuck took it, thumbed through it without attention.

"What's that mean, Sarah, 'weakest link'?" Chuck asked as she walked into the bathroom.

She stopped at the door and looked back, a hard look on her face for a moment. "Tomorrow, I am going to find out how Bryce Larkin, P. I., is involved in all of this." She felt the blue of her eyes flash and saw Chuck gulp.

"Man, am I glad I am not Bryce Larkin."

* * *

A/N: This is enjoyable but it is also a lot of work. How about a line or two to cheer me on the way? Thoughts?


	15. Pretty Boys

A/N: We move into the action of the second arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter 15: Pretty Boys

* * *

Monday, November 8, 1965  
The Palmer House Hotel, Chicago  
Room 2022

* * *

Sarah slept dreamlessly, a deep, complete sleep. She woke slowly, peacefully, despite a vague, distant sense of peril. Blinking, she rolled over, off her stomach, faced her side of the bed.

She woke to face Chuck. He was in the armchair, still dressed in only his boxers, and he had one elbow on one knee, his chin resting in the hand above that elbow. He was looking at her in that bi-level way that only someone who both sees you and reflects upon you can — she was both the object of Chuck's vision and of Chuck's thought.

She felt a twinge of self-consciousness. Her admission to Ellie that she had done things she was not proud of was true, and she had not shared any of those things with her boyfriend. She wanted to tell him everything, to share it all, but she had not done so. There had not been time. But even if there had…

She found herself blushing, the burgeoning dawn behind the drawn window shade echoed in her face. "What are you doing, Chuck? Don't tell me you are trying to imagine me blonde?"

Chuck grinned with one side of his face but did not lift his chin from his palm. "No — I was just thinking about detectives. And you."

"Detectives? And me?"

"Yeah, have you ever read Chandler's 'The Simple Art of Murder'?"

Sarah stretched out supine beneath the blanket but kept her face toward Chuck. "No, I can't say that I have. I never considered a detective novel on-the-job training."

"It's not a novel, like _Playback_," Chuck glanced at the book on the nightstand next to her. "It's an essay on detective fiction. It ends with what I think of as 'The Detective Hymn', two amazing paragraphs. Chandler describes the ideal that, say, Marlow, his primary character, is meant to embody.

"I was remembering the end of the passage, but replacing the male pronouns with female ones. With the replacements, the last line would go something like: 'If there were enough like her, I think the world would be a very safe place to live in, and yet not too dull to be worth living in.'

That last line is about you, Sarah Walker, _you_, 'a woman fit for adventure'."

"Chuck," Sarah protested, as she blushed more deeply, full scarlet, and let out a soft peal of incredulous laughter, "I'm nothing special. I've lived a mixed-up sort of life, not one that's always been on the right side of the law, or...on the right side, period." She gazed at Chuck, almost holding her breath, fearful of his reaction.

But Chuck's grin claimed the whole of his face. "I said it before, Sarah, and I wasn't exaggerating. You are everything I ever imagined. In fact, you're more. My imagination was too feeble to create all that you are."

"That's too much, Chuck," Sarah said, laughing again, putting her forearm across her face, her eyes, to hide her embarrassment, "stop, please. I'm...Chuck, I'm the lucky one here. I...I've been...waiting for you, waiting for a really long time, like I knew you had to exist but couldn't make myself believe it until you were standing in front of me."

"Me? Had to exist? I'm as ordinary as _dirt_, Sarah. Really."

She moved her arm, rolled toward him. "Dirt? No, Chuck. Hallowed ground..." She fastened her eyes to his, unable to say more but willing him to understand her subtle change of demeanor, how serious she was, the gravity of her words.

He looked down. "Sarah…" He said her name in a whisper, looked up at her then dropped his eyes. "Thanks, but…I've lived a mixed-up sort of life too. I've spent most of my time since college stumbling around, trying to _find _the starting-blocks, much less get out of them.

"I have a job, I guess it's a good one, one that I'm good at, but I haven't pushed myself. I've drifted. Not from place to place like some Zane Grey character, but from mood to mood — except my moods never believe in each other, and from dream to dream, but my dreams don't believe in each other, either…" He finally looked at her. "You're a woman fit for adventure. I'm a dope who can't keep from misadventure."

It finally struck Sarah how serious Chuck was, how forlorn. She could feel how weak he thought his hold on her was. She sat up and took his hand, holding it tight.. "Ellie called you her hero, Chuck. And you are. Trying so hard to help her. Coming out here. Facing a man like Tony Accardo. Trying to take him down all on your own. Making your way to the Palmer House to try to warn Maria Tomek."

She stopped so as to emphasize her final words, her thumb caressing the knuckles of his hand: "And...the way you make me _feel_. You're the adventure I've been waiting for, Chuck."

She opened her arms to him and they quietly made love in the blush of dawn.

* * *

The cabbie chewed on his cigar as he maneuvered the car through the thickening Monday morning traffic. He was a heavy-set man, older than the average cabbie, his white hair cropped Marine-corps close. Steering smoothly with one hand, the other full of a skyscraper styrofoam coffee, he grunted periodically as he wove an intricate path southward into the city.

Sarah was on her way to the offices of Larkin Investigations. But that was not at the forefront of her mind. No, her mind was still in bed with her boyfriend, their arms and legs an intimate tangle, their breathing labored, their hearts racing.

She glanced up from the back seat to the rearview mirror to find the cabbies eyes on her. She realized that she wore a stupid-happy smile, and he gave her a nod and a wink, somehow rolling his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other as he did.

"This cold doesn't seem to be botherin' ya, eh?" His tone was merry.

Sarah changed her expression to a less revealing smile. "Not too bad this morning. At least there's full sun."

"Yeah, yeah, love these starched winter mornings, everythin' so clear and clean-edged. Snow on the ground but no moisture in the air, like the world was made to be looked at..."

Sarah nodded, appreciating the lyrical turn in the cabbie's speech. It was a starched morning, everything in the waking city seemed supra-visible, each object an underlined word in a purely visual language.

She had been in the Palmer House for so long that she had almost forgotten the outside world, the hour, the day, the year, the street, the block, the city. There had been only the hotel and her boyfriend — and the Baroque game of hide-and-seek she was playing.

The cab stopped at a red light and the cabbie put his massive coffee on the dash while he rolled down his window and lit his cigar. Despite the lowered window, the cab filled with thick gray smoke for a moment. The cabbie threw his match out the window and looked at Sarah in the mirror. "Hope ya don't mind. Mostly, they're for chewing, but every now and then, I put one to the flame."

Sarah waved her hand in the smoke and nodded, glad that she had foregone breakfast. Before she left the hotel, she made arrangements for Devon to get breakfast to Chuck. He was to do it after Holbert came in for the day-shift. Sarah trusted Devon, and she was glad for his help, but secrecy was not his long suit. She just had to have faith that he could manage to get the food to Chuck without being seen.

They drove on for a distance, the cabbie sipping coffee and smoking.

Finally, the cabbie pulled to the curb. "Alrighty, Miss, here we are." Sarah handed him the fare and got out, buttoning her coat and tightening her scarf. Cigar smoke got out with her. The cab pulled away.

She looked across the street at the brownish concrete three-story building. In one third-floor window was a sign, Larkin Investigations. Next to the building was a parking lot, and she noted that Larkin's spot there was empty.

She checked the street for traffic and then crossed it quickly. She walked around the building to the side entrance, the one that faced the parking lot. As she expected, the door was open. The bottom floor belonged to a towing company, and someone was there, at least the dispatcher, around the clock. Sarah went up the stairs, past the law offices on the second floor.

At the top of the stairs was the large door of Larkin Investigations. The name was stenciled in angular black letters on the door's frosted glass. Sarah took out her keys and slipped one into the door. It opened. She had banked on Bryce being too lazy to change the locks after she quit. And he had not asked for the key back. _Of course, he probably expected me to come back to work, back to him. Ladies man! _

Sarah closed the door and glanced around the mostly familiar office. Mostly — because it was clear that the desk that had been Sarah's was now someone else's. A small flower was positioned on the corner of the desk, pens and pencils were in a neon orange holder, and a copy of Cosmopolitan was on the opposite corner. Sarah walked to the past the desk and opened the top drawer. As she expected, perfume and various make-up items were in it, along with a few bobby pins. There was also a golden woman's class ring, the year of graduation on the side, 1964.

Sarah took two of the pins and closed the drawer. Bending them open, she stepped to the file cabinet. A moment later, it was open, and she slid out the top drawer.

Sarah fanned through the files until she found the one she wanted. _Moe's. _She pulled it out and opened it up. It was thin. A few receipts for jobs, including moving the furniture into the office when Larkin first opened it. Nothing seemed of interest until she noted a phone number, written in Larkin's hand, near the bottom of one of the receipts. Sarah memorized the number, then put the file away. She scanned over the tabs of the files, looking to see if anything caught her eye, but nothing did. She shut the top drawer and slid open the second. It was empty except for a pistol and a box of cartridges, two cameras, a 35mm and a Polaroid, and film for each. There was also an open box of condoms.

Sarah glanced at the flowered desk and wondered if Larkin had deflowered its occupant yet. Almost certainly. She returned her attention to the drawer.

The pistol was familiar to Sarah, Larkin's backup weapon; he had kept it there with the cameras — but not the condoms — when she worked for him. A Smith and Wesson 60 in stainless steel. She picked the pistol up and checked it. It was loaded. She slipped it into the top of her jeans.

Closing the second drawer, she opened the third. She recognized its contents too. Chuck's tape recorder was there, and the Parker 51 fountain pen. The recorder was too big and heavy to take with her. Sarah moved it to the secretary's desk and plugged it in.

She rewound the tape, then unhooked it from other, now-empty reel. She stuffed the reel with wound tape in one of her jacket pockets. She put the tape player back and grabbed the pen, slipping it into her other jacket pocket, along with the knife she had bought at _Drab Olive Drab._

She shut the third drawer, the bottom one, and relocked the cabinet. She looked at the clock on the wall. Almost 9 am. The office would open soon. Larkin normally did not arrive until later, but he wanted his secretary there at 9 am.

Sarah hurried from the outer office to the inner one, Larkin's. She scanned the room. The long metal-armed couch took up one side of the room, the side she was on, and Larkin's desk the other. Sarah crossed to the desk. When she got there, she noticed a torn condom-wrapper beneath the couch. _Ladies man, cradle robber. _She looked at the top of Larkin's desk. It was messy, as always. She saw nothing of interest, except his notepad. The top page had been torn off.

She tore off the second, folded it carefully, and put it in the breast pocket of her jacket. The one desk drawer was locked. She used the bobby pin to open it. Inside was a bottle of Canadian Club and two glasses, a small bottle of mouthwash, a half-empty carton of Marlboros, an expensive lighter with a _Playboy _insignia, and nothing more. Sarah sighed. She pulled the drawer out farther and heard something move. Bending down, she slipped her arm to the rear edge of the desk. Wedging it in, she felt something taped to it. It took her a second, but she finally got her fingers on it enough to pull it loose and to work it up over the edge and pull into the desk itself.

She picked it up. It was a small, flat can of film. 8mm. She was almost certain she knew what it was — the film of Aidan and Ellie. The one part of Ellie's story Sarah did not believe but also did not question (because Ellie believed it) was that Ellie had talked to Tony Accardo on the phone. That seemed highly unlikely. Accardo did no dirty work. No, she had talked to someone who used Accardo's name to scare Ellie, probably at Accardo's direction. It had been Larkin, Sarah was willing to bet on that.

Sarah shut the desk drawer and hurried out of the office. She looked once more to make sure everything was at it had been — or at least looked like it — then she left the office, locking it behind her. She ran down the stairs, turned the corner, and went out the front, not the side, door. She slipped the can of film under her jacket. As she reached the edge of the street, she saw a young woman walking down it, toward the building. She was attractive, large eyes with straight blonde hair. She had on a long coat, unbuttoned, and a tiny miniskirt under it, with tall black boots that came almost to her knees. Sarah knew instantly it was Larkin's new secretary.

The woman had not noticed Sarah, so Sarah quickly crossed the street. Opposite the building with Larkin's office was a small coffee shop, Velma's Cup.

Sarah went inside and sat down. The seat she chose was near the window; she could see the building. She watched the secretary enter the side door.

"What'll it be, lady?" Sarah looked up to see a woman she had often chatted with when she worked for Larkin and had coffee at the shop — the owner, Velma. Velma, a short, stout, middle-aged woman with black-and-gray hair piled high on her head, started when Sarah looked up. Velma's eyes went wide.

"Miss Walker? _That you_?"

Sarah had forgotten her dyed hair; her glasses. "Yes, Velma, it's me. With alterations." She gave Velma a warm smile. She had always liked the woman.

Velma had always not-liked Larkin. "You ain't working for that teeth-and-hairball again are you? The tiny dick?"

Sarah had always enjoyed Velma's dislike of Larkin, her frank, brutal talk. Velma had been disappointed in Sarah when she found out Sarah had gone out with Larkin, but she had cheered her on the day Sarah quit.

Sarah felt a little guilty about never having come back to the shop, but she had not wanted to run into Larkin. Larkin never actually came into the shop. He knew Velma hated him, but he sent his secretary, whoever she was, to fetch coffee a couple of times a day.

"No, Velma, I'm not. I have a new job and I haven't gotten down the way to see you. I apologize for that."

Velma grinned and snorted. "No doubt you also wanted to avoid the smiling shithead. Thank God you got outta there before he...Well, the new girl ain't so lucky, but she seems to think she is. That'll wear off soon enough. Larkin's never satisfied anyone but himself." Velma looked out the window toward Larkin's office sign. "That poor child comes over here to get coffee, her clothes and hair and makeup all skewed from...dictation."

"I'd like coffee and…"

"A plain cake donut?"

"Yes, Velma, exactly. Say, have you seen anything or anyone around Larkin's lately, anyone of...interest?"

Velma gave Sarah a look. "Miss Walker, have you gone and done it, become a detective yourself, like you said you were gonna?"

"I have, sort of, Velma. This, my hair and glasses, are part of the new job."

Velma stared Sarah down, head to toe. "There's more that's changed with you, more...all-ter-ations...than just dye and glasses, Miss Walker. You look happy."

Sarah giggled and saw Velma's eyes widen. "I am, I can't go into it, and it's all crazy, but I am. Happy." _I am. _

Velma chuckled in response, then winked. "Well, it'd be obvious to anyone what knows you, Miss Walker, but clearly _something's got inside you._" Velma walked away and added "_Or someone_," as she walked away.

Sarah slipped the can of film onto the seat beside her, arranging her jacket so that it was obscured from view. A moment later, Velma came back with Sarah's order. "So," she said, as she put the coffee and donut on the table, "are you investigating the investigator?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, Velma, but I need you not to let on. Don't say anything to Larkin or to his secretary."

"Kitty."

"Huh?"

"That's the new secretary's name. Kitty." Velma rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I'd be on your side just because it's not his — if it weren't for the fact that I'm always gonna be on your side, Miss Walker."

"I've told you, Velma, it's Sarah."

Velma blinked. "I know, Miss Walker. And tell him, whoever he is, that in my view he just hit the jackpot."

The two women grinned at each other. Velma headed away, to tend to two workmen who had just come in. The looked much like the two men who had been at The Accordion Bakery. The similarity was heightened because they were talking about the Bears and Packers game the day before. Sarah had forgotten all about it.

Evidently, the Bears won, 31-10.

The two men were very happy about it, especially since the Bear's season has so far been so-so, the Packer's much better. A victory over the hated Bart Starr seemed to provide an endless subject of conversation. Sarah half-listened to them as she stared out the window and sipped her coffee, ate her donut.

After a couple of minutes, a car pulled into the parking lot beside Larkin's building and into a spot next to the one that Larkin used. The driver stayed in the car and Sarah could not see him or her, only an indistinct silhouette.

And then Larkin arrived in his light blue Mustang. He pulled in but did not get out. The driver from the first-arriving car got out. It was a man, tall-ish, broad-shouldered, handsome, with dark hair.

As he walked around his car and Larkin's, Velma came to Sarah's table. "Oh, you asked about anyone of interest. I meant to answer but got distracted. Yeah, that guy. He's been around now and then. Usually early. Like this. Get's into the car with Pretty Boy. 'Course, they're both _pretty boys_. They drive away. Then they return and the new guy drives away in his car. I've never seen him go inside. Maybe the tiny dick doesn't want any bigger competition…"

Sarah laughed silently, surprised by the comment. Larkin's car was still in its spot but the exhaust showed the motor was running. Sarah put down some money. "Thanks, Velma." Then an idea occurred to Sarah. "Velma, could you do me a favor. Do you have someplace secret, someplace safe, you could put these?" She handed Velma the film can then dug the reel of audiotape out of her pocket.

Velma took them, looked at them, then at Sarah. "They important?"

"Yes."

"Well, I got two great big Mayo jars in the back. They're both painted white from the inside, but they ain't got no condiment in them. I keep my extra cash in one. I think these'll just fit into the other."

"Good. They really are important." Sarah put on her coat. "Do you by any chance have a hat I can borrow."

"Let me check Lost and Found." Velma walked away with the film and the tape. She went into the back. Larkin's car was still parked, still running.

Velma came back with a black fur cap and handed it to Sarah. "Thanks, Velma. Do you know who that other man is?"

"He came in once," Velma said. "He was seated when one of the beat cops came in. The cop knew him, called him _Daniel_."

"Thanks. I'll get back for those things as soon as I can."

Velma smiled a conspirator's smile. "Go get him, honey."

Larkin's car was backing up, the other man was still inside. They pulled out of the lot. Sarah put on the cap and left the coffee shop. Luckily, a cab stopped immediately when she waved.

She got inside. It was the cigar-smoker from earlier. The cigar had gone out but he was still chewing it. Sarah pointed through the windshield at the blue Mustang. "Follow that car, please."

The man grinned around his cigar, flicking his eyes up into the rearview mirror. "Like the hat. Very _Doctor Zhivago_, Lara."

Sarah gave him an uncomprehending look, then nodded. "Oh, I've never seen the film. But I've read the book." She smiled to herself as the driver kept pace with Larkin.

* * *

Larkin drove. And drove. Sarah was sure the man in the car with him was the police detective Zondra had mentioned. Shaw.

But what was he doing with Larkin? Where were they going?

They drove around the lake, frozen blue beneath the yellow sun, and eventually onto North Lake Shore Drive. Larkin stopped in the parking lot of the Lake Tower Motel.

Sarah had never seen the motel, though she knew of it, in part because it had an outdoor swimming pool and was known for the large _Motel _sign atop its tower. It insisted on calling itself a motel, not a hotel, in an attempt to make itself seem more modern than the Palmer House or the Sherman House. It also catered to drivers, as opposed to flyers or train riders, and so had its own large parking lot.

Sarah asked the driver to pull into the lot on the opposite end from the one Larkin had chosen. "Will you wait for me? I'll just be a few minutes, probably."

"Lara," the man said, rolling down his window and throwing out the wet butt of his masticated cigar, "ya got me intrigued. I'll stay."

Sarah gave him a grin; she liked the man in spite of his cigar odor. "Thanks."

She got out of the car. Larkin and Shaw had entered the motel. Sarah hurried behind them, slowing at the doors and looking through to make sure they had not stopped there. They had not.

She entered, glad of the warmth. A woman at the desk looked up at her, smiling. "May I help you?"

"Just meeting someone," Sarah said. The woman looked her over, and it occurred to Sarah that the woman thought maybe she was a pro, although the hour counted against it. Still, an attractive woman alone entering a hotel. Sarah knew what she would have thought, although she chided herself for it.

She walked toward the restaurant. When she got near the door, she saw Larkin and Shaw. They were seated at a corner table with another man, Joey Lombardo. The restaurant was otherwise empty, in-between its breakfast and lunch crowds.

Joe. Joey The Clown. Accardo's hired killer. Sarah did not like clowns.

Sarah knew what she had to know. She walked back past the deck and out the door. The desk clerk watched Sarah leave, obviously puzzled. Sarah got to the taxi and opened the door, sliding into the back seat. "Okay, take me to the Palmer House, please."

"Sure, Lara. So, the pretty boys?"

Sarah's head snapped around, hearing Velma's phrase again. She shook her head slowly. "Beauty's only skin deep."

He winked at her. "You can say that again, Lara. Eh. But for most folks, I'm not sure how much deeper it needs to be."

* * *

Sarah paid the driver and thanked him. She had things she needed to do in the hotel.

She needed to find out who Maria Tomek registered with, who was at the desk.

She needed to talk to Lousia.

At some point, she was going to have to decide what to do about Zondra. She could not tell her about Lakoff without having to account for her knowledge, or about Shaw.

The phone number she found at Larkin's. She needed to know whose it was. She wanted to look at the page she took from his notebook.

She needed to get Chuck some lunch, get it up to him. Tell him, and Ellie, what she found a Larkin's office.

She was trying to get all of it straight in her mind as she entered the lobby.

Morgan saw her. He came out from behind the desk.

"Sarah, you need to go up to _2024_. The couple there was having a fight. Andy says that a tall man with dark hair broke it up. _A tall man with dark hair_."

It took Sarah a moment, but she saw the urgency in Morgan's eyes. _Chuck. _She hurried to the elevator.

_Damn it, Chuck, I told you to stay in the room!_

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?

The Bears/Packers game that year was actually played a week earlier, but this is the right score, and Bart Starr was the quarterback of the Packers. Gale Sayers was the player of note for the Bears, although he had a middling day.


	16. Professional Women

A/N: More Hotel Detective. Back in the Palmer House.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Sixteen: Professional Women

* * *

Sarah heard voices as she stepped off the elevator on the twentieth floor.

Holbert was talking, his voice high and plaintive, frustrated. "I don't know who it was, Mrs. James, I've told you that several times. I called the desk and talked to Mr. Grimes, the clerk, but he does not know of any guest fitting that description. — And it doesn't matter. As you said, he just took the vase from you; he did you no harm and, perhaps, kept you from doing any. — And, remember, this is the second time I've had to contend with you two…"

There was a silence for a moment, then a woman's deep voice. "I pay good money, good money, to stay here — and to have my...affairs remain mine. A hotel detective should protect the reputation of the hotel's guests."

As Sarah reached the door, she heard a deep male voice respond. "Edna, this was all a misunderstanding. This lady was just looking for another guest. She knocked on our door by mistake and I was trying to help her figure out where she was going."

"She must have been going south, then, because you were giving her directions by unzipping her dress!"

Sarah walked into the room. Holbert was standing near the door. A woman, in her early 50s, red-faced and fuming, panting, stood on one side of the turned-down bed. _Mrs. James._ Sarah remembered the name. Andy told her the name the night Jeff Barnes tranqed him.

On the other side was a handsome man, elegantly dressed. Beside him was a willowy woman with platinum blonde hair. She was wearing a tight black dress, or almost wearing it. She had her arms crossed and was holding the dress to her. It was obviously unzipped in the back. The woman wore heavy makeup, dark. She was attractive but the makeup and her expression beneath it, a deep, annoyed frown, made her look hard.

"What seems to be the trouble, Holbert?"

Holbert suppressed an eye-roll as Sarah glanced at him. "Mrs. James and her husband, Edgar, had a disagreement that began with Mrs. James finding Edgar in the room here with this young...lady."

Sarah turned to the woman. "Turn around."

The woman gave Sarah a surprised look, then a grateful nod. She turned. The back of the black dress was open, the pink lace of the woman's bra showing along with a great deal of her pale skin. Sarah zipped up the dress. "What's your name?"

"Sadie," the woman said, turning to face Sarah. "The guy's right. I was just lost. He was helping me. My zipper had gotten stuck a couple of inches from the top; I hadn't noticed."

"Oh," Sarah said in a neutral tone, "but Edgar noticed it?"

"Yes, yes, exactly."

Sarah glanced at Edgar, who seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for Sarah's reaction. "Well, Edgar is a helpful fellow...and sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction."

As soon as Sarah said this, the tension in the room seemed to decrease. As Sarah turned away from Sadie, Mrs. James' shoulders sagged and some of the righteous anger seeped from her. She glanced at Edgar, trying to temper her unbelief with belief.

Sarah kept talking. "Now, was someone else involved?"

Edgar, eager to shift the focus of discussion, volunteered an answer. "Edna got angry when she saw...us…" he glanced at the blonde woman, "and she grabbed that vase and came after us…" The heavy vase, off-white, was on its side on the bed, as if events had overwhelmed it and it had fainted away.

The blonde jumped in. "Yeah, and she was screeching obscenities at us, chasing us around."

Edgar continued. "The door was still open, I guess, and the next thing I know, this tall man comes in and takes the vase from Edna. He yelled for us all to calm down. We stopped circling the room. He tossed the vase on the bed and told us to be nice and to be quiet; the next thing we knew, he was gone. A couple of minutes later, Edna started yelling again — and then this guy," he nodded at Holbert, "came in. And then you did."

"And you don't know who the tall man was?"

Edna, Edgar and the blonde all shook their heads in unison. Edna spoke. "Never saw him before, that I know of. I assume he must be another guest in the hotel."

Sarah nodded. "Do you think he is on this floor?" She held her breath.

"No," Edgar said. "After he left, I heard the stairwell door close. That was before Edna started shouting again."

Again, Sarah nodded. "So, do you have some complaint to make against the man?"

"No," Edna said, her anger gone and now visibly embarrassed. "No. Just tell him to mind his own business if you find him."

"I will, don't worry. We appreciate your patronage and we do want to do our best."

Sarah rotated to the blonde. "Why don't you come with me. Maybe I can help you get where you are going."

Sarah walked out of the room, followed by the blonde and Holbert. Holbert closed the door. Sarah led the blonde away from it then stopped in the hallway. No one was there except for the blonde and Holbert.

"Look, I understand what happened. Edgar called you, right?"

The blonde stood stiff for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, he told me to come to 2024."

"Look," Sarah said, "Sadie, you'd best clear out of here before our manager gets involved in this. He's not an...unreasonable man, but he wants what happens in individual rooms to stay in the individual rooms. We don't want to police our guests but we don't want the guests to bring the police here." The woman started to speak but Sarah held up her hand. "I know, it's not your fault, and you are out your time and your money. Nothing I can do about that."

The blonde sighed and shrugged, commenting flatly, "It's a living, most days."

Sarah said nothing in response. She turned to Holbert. "Can you...escort the lady down to the lobby, Holbert?"

He pressed his lips into a line and nodded.

"No commentary, Holbert," Sarah added softly, "just see that she goes. We don't need her and Edna crossing paths again."

Holbert led the blonde to the elevator. Sarah watched them get on. When the doors closed, she spun quickly, took out her skeleton key, and entered 2022.

* * *

Chuck was seated at the end of the bed, facing the door. He looked like a boy waiting outside the principal's office.

Sarah shut the door and stared at him. She wanted to be angry — and maybe she was, but she was also incredibly glad to be with him again. She crossed to him in three aggressive strides and tackled him back onto the bed. She kissed him greedily, pulling their bodies close together.

"Ow! Ow!" Chuck whispered, pushing her away for a second. "Is that a combat knife in your coat pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

Sarah pushed herself up and took off her scarf and coat and dropped them on the floor, laughing softly. She lowered herself and began kissing Chuck again.

After a few minutes, he reached up and pulled the black fur hat off her head. She had forgotten it was there.

He pulled his lips from her so that he could look at the hat. "What?"

"Dr. Zhivago," she said, unable to stifle a smile, and drew his lips to hers. As he kissed her back, he started humming, something slow and moving. It was Sarah's turn to pull away. "What's that?"

"_Lara's Theme. _From the movie." He hummed a few more bars, then grinned guiltily. "I guess I was sorta imagining you blonde this morning. Just a little."

* * *

A few minutes later, Sarah forced herself to stand, positioned at the foot of the bed. She composed her face, cooled her eyes.

Chuck sat up. "I know I'm in trouble."

"Chuck, you have to stay in the room. You have to. At least you thought to open and close the stairwell door. That kept me from having to focus attention on this floor. But still…"

"I know. I realized I had made a serious mistake, but it sounded like someone was going to get killed." He tilted his head, shot her a grin, somehow cockeyed yet remorseful. "And I can't seem to escape _Hot-Pillow Houses._" His grin passed. "I couldn't just sit here and listen to someone get hurt or killed Sarah. I won't save myself at the loss of someone else. I won't."

Sarah could not keep the blue of her eyes cool any longer. His power to warm her was irresistible. "My hero," she whispered and bent down to kiss him.

He kissed her back. "My hero. So, what happened? Did you find Larkin, figure anything out?"

Sarah sat down on the foot of the bed beside Chuck. "I did. I found a few things out and I found a few things."

"Huh?"

Sarah started to answer but there was a quick succession of soft taps on the door. Sarah got up, slipping her hand into the waist of her pants, her fingers coiling around the handle of the gun she had taken from Larkin's office. She used the other hand to push aside the small cover of the peep-hole.

She sighed in relief then hastily opened the door, gesturing Morgan inside.

"Morgan, there'd better be a damn good reason…"

He ducked his head. "There is, Sarah. I got a call from Carina. She told me to tell you that this morning, she got up to get ready for an early automat shift and found no coffee in the apartment."

"Morgan!"

"That's not all. — She left to go to the market and it took her a few minutes longer than she expected. When she got back, around 9 am, your apartment had been broken into. Stuff was everywhere, but it didn't look like anything had been stolen. She tidied up quickly and left. She's at the automat now," Morgan finished, a concerned look on his face.

Sarah studied the carpet. Larkin? Shaw? Lakoff? Someone else? It would have been possible for either Larkin or Shaw to have done it and still rendezvoused at Larkin's office. Whose side in all this was Lakoff on?

How many sides were there in all this?

"Were they looking for me, Sarah?"

"That'd be my guess, Chuck. That's why we didn't go back there. If Carina calls back, and I'm betting she does, tell her to go to _Patel's _when she gets off work. I'll meet her there and we'll go home together. I don't think she has a Green Mill shift tonight. Just leave me a note on my desk if she calls and agrees, Morgan. — Oh, and thanks for before, sending me up here. I think we're still okay." She gave Chuck a stern look.

"I'm going to get lunch. I can bring something back for you and for Chuck."

"Thanks, but don't make it obvious. Just leave the food on my desk. I have to talk with Chuck for a few minutes anyway. Have you seen Agent Rizzo?"

"She's around. She doesn't talk to me. And I'm not complaining. She scares me." He started toward the door.

"Wait, Morgan, are you the one that Maria Tomek checked in with? Were you at the desk?"

"No, she came in just after my shift ended. It was Robert. I know he's talked to Rizzo and her paunchy sidekick. More than once."

"Alright. Is Louisa working today?"

Morgan made a face, thinking. "I don't...No, she isn't. Casey said she called in. Her husband's been sick…"

Sarah nodded. "Thanks, Morgan."

Morgan smiled. "No problem. Oh!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of wrapped peppermints. "For you, Chuck. I got them on the way to work this morning."

Chuck put out his hand and Morgan put the peppermints in it. "Thanks, Morgan. You're a man after my own heart."

Morgan actually blushed. "Thanks, dude. Right back at you."

Sarah walked ahead of Morgan to the door and checked through it. "Okay, the coast is clear…" He quickly left.

* * *

Sarah came back and sat down next to Chuck. He held out his handful of peppermints to her. "Want one?"

"No, thanks. How's your stomach?"

"Well, as crazy as this sounds, it's stopped bothering me. It stopped when you rescued me from those men. You sure you don't want one?"

"No, Chuck. I need to confess something to you. I entered your room and Friscoed it after we were at The Accordion Bakery."

"You did? You suspected me, didn't you?"

"I knew something was going on and that you were involved. But I never could get myself to believe you were on the wrong side of it. I just couldn't see how you were on the right side of it. I was struggling."

"I get that. I was too. I wanted to tell you but I was afraid, and I didn't want to reveal Ellie's secret. — But why tell me this now?"

"There was a book in your room, _Psycho-Cybernetics. _You had left it open to the first pages of the…"

"...Third Chapter," Chuck volunteered.

Sarah gazed at him closely. "Yes, the chapter on…."

"_Imagination — The First Key to Your Success Mechanism_. (It was italicized.)" Chuck closed his eyes and went on. "'IMAGINATION (the word was in all caps) plays a far more important role in our lives than most of us realize.'"

Sarah's face became intent. "Right. Right. And this morning, you quoted a passage of Chandler, shifted pronouns…"

"Uh-huh, the Detective Hymn."

"Can you always do that, recall things so well, so exactly?"

Chuck's face took on a complicated expression. "Once, when I was a boy, I was even better at it. I had what my dad called 'eidetic memory'. I could retain memories as if they were photographs or recordings and describe them in vivid detail. But, for most people, as they get older, become more sophisticated speakers, the power fades. It did for me too, but not so completely. I'm 'unusually retentive',...um… 'childlike', as Ellie sometimes puts it, depending on whether she likes or dislikes what I remembered. — Did you know Ellie wanted, wants, to study neurophysiology?"

Sarah shook her head. "So, you no longer have this...eidetic memory?"

Chuck shrugged. "It works on occasion. Things that matter to me, if I'm not otherwise upset or distracted, make a...really deep impression. Like, I could tell you what you've had on, every time I have seen you. But I can't recall Maria Tomek's murder scene clearly at all." Another shrug.

Sarah looked at him for a minute. "I have a good memory too, but a good, _normal_ one. It helped at the Farm, and they taught us various mnemonic tricks, techniques for putting things to memory. But I recall that in that class, they said photographic memories are really a myth."

Chuck nodded. "That's true, I guess. But eidetic memories aren't, or at any rate, there's better evidence for them. The trouble is that they don't often persist past childhood. I have no idea why I've retained it even to the extent that I have, and to be honest, it's often been as much a bad thing as a good. I have some bad memories that linger on in full, misery-inducing technicolor…"

Sarah wanted to ask about them, but that would have to wait for another time. "Do you by any chance remember your conversation with Tony Accardo at the Green Mill?"

Chuck stared at Sarah for a second, then closed his eyes. "Yeah, I think I still have most of it."

"But the recording you tried to make didn't work?"

"Right. And?"

"I should have led with this but, well, you left the room and caused trouble, and then I wanted to kiss you so much, and then Morgan came in…But I found the audiotape from your tape recorder. But, I also found an 8 mm film…"

"Ellie's tape! Sarah! You have it?" He whisper-shouted and bounced on the bed, _childlike_, to use Ellie's term.

"Not on me, and I'm not absolutely sure, but, yes, I believe I found it. I hid it for safekeeping. I found it and the audiotape at Larkin Investigations."

"Son of a bitch! — Is that where you found the gun too? I saw you grab it when Morgan came to the door."

Sarah nodded, glancing away. "Severance pay. And the fewer guns Larkin has access to, the better. And mine is back at my apartment."

"Or was."

"Right, maybe it was Larkin who broke in and I'll find we just traded weapons…"

"I can't wait for you to tell Ellie, Sarah!" He grabbed her and hugged her hard, almost squeezing the breath out of her. "You should go right now."

"In a minute. I'm eager to tell her too, Chuck, but, as glad as I am to have found that, it isn't the main problem, you are. The murder and the suspicion of you. Ellie would absolutely agree. Look, I'm almost certain the hotel has a tape recorder like the one you modified. Could you recall your side of the conversation with Accardo well enough to tape it?"

"Probably. I was nervous, anxious, but not horrified, terrified like I was in Maria's room. Why?"

"I heard Larkin on the phone at _Moe's. _He told the person he was talking to that the tape is blank. But we have it now and we can always claim that it wasn't blank, that it was _specially _recorded and that only you knew how to get the audio off the tape. They know you built the recorder, so they'll know you're technically competent."

"But I'm not. It didn't work."

"But they don't have to know that. I'll see if I can get a recorder for us. You have a project now. Try to remember as much of your conversation as you can, as close to _verbatim_ as you can, and write it down for me. Practice reading it as you spoke it to him. We're going to make Larkin and his employers think Larkin made a serious mistake."

* * *

Sarah left Ellie's room after checking the hall. She was sure that either Zondra or the police were passing by Ellie's room regularly, in hopes that Chuck would show up.

Ellie had wept when Sarah told her about the film. But, as Sarah had predicted, that had not long been at the forefront of Ellie's mind. She was worried, and getting more worried, about Chuck.

Zondra had not visited Ellie that morning but it was likely, Sarah knew, that she would stop by at some point during the day. Ellie seemed up to the visit, however, and Sarah would have enjoyed being able to witness Zondra facing a prepared and rested Ellie.

But Sarah had other things she needed to do. She went down one flight of stairs and then took the elevator to the lobby. Holbert was back in a chair. Morgan was at the desk. Casey was standing beside him. They both saw Sarah but neither reacted visibly to her. Lakoff, Zondra's partner, was standing off to the side of the lobby, looking around, idly — or apparently so.

Sarah walked over to Holbert and sat down beside him. "Did you help the working girl on her way?"

Holbert nodded, then gave Sarah a puzzled look. "That James woman. Why on earth does she keep that patent-leather kid around, her husband? She knows he's...jerking her around. Using her money to pay for...pros."

Sarah shook her head. "I don't know, Holbert. 'The heart has its reasons which reasons know nothing of…'" Sarah felt those words come home to her.

Holbert gave her a wide-eyed look. "Huh?"

"Pascal. From a book, a book I read. _Pensees._"

Holbert blanked.

"It's French. So was he."

"You read French?"

Sarah shrugged. "A little."

"You've been to France." A statement and not a question.

Sarah nodded once. Chuck had asked that too, more or less. She hadn't wanted to think about it either time.

Holbert gave her a slightly intimidated responding nod. "I don't get you, Walker. I don't understand why Casey hired a woman as a hotel detective. Hell, that football player, Woodcomb, was an odd enough choice; but I get it. Casey's a football fan." He waved a hand.

"But you...I don't get it. It ain't to get in your pants. That man loves his wife. So, why hire a former secretary as a hotel detective?"

Sarah sighed. "Have I done anything to suggest I can't do the job, Holbert?"

"No, but that's part of what I don't get. You're not just good at the job, you're better than good at it. Too good."

Sarah stood up. "Appreciate the vote of..._confidence_, Holbert."

Sarah walked toward the desk, at an angle to pass close by it. Lakoff had boarded the elevator and gone up.

Sarah made eye contact with Casey and then went down to her office. She opened the door, flicked on the light, and waited. A bag of Chinese take-out was on her desk. A moment later, Casey walked in, straightening his navy suit. "So, how goes the haunting, Sarah Spook?"

"Seriously, Casey, don't call me that. I'm making some progress, I think. The FBI suspects the wrong man."

"Yes, I've talked to Agent Rizzo this morning. I wondered about it too. I mean it looks like a mob job all the way, and Rizzo told me Tomek was hiding from the mob. This Bartowski character doesn't sound like a killer. But Rizzo has evidence and she seems to believe it's possible that Bartowski did it for the mob, even though he isn't a mobster." Casey pulled on the cuff of his shirt under his jacket. "Doesn't make much sense to me but then again, I'm no law enforcement officer."

"Agent Rizzo thinks like an FBI agent. All in straight lines. She's methodical. She may think it is the mob that is ultimately responsible, but she takes herself to have someone who was at the scene and who has the victim's blood on his hat. She'll stalk him until she finds him and convict him if she can. She won't let go of him until the evidence points in another direction."

"I suppose. But I take it the former CIA agent doesn't think like the FBI agent?"

"No, not exactly. We think in spirals and zigzags. Say, Casey, does the hotel have one of those reel-to-reel tape players around somewhere, maybe for use at conventions?"

"Um...Yes, we do. It's in the supply room on the third floor, near the housekeeper's room. It's next to the PA equipment, I think."

Casey put his hand on his chin and rubbed it, looking at Sarah. "Look, Sarah. I've been wondering. _Double-agent?_ Rizzo told me that you had coffee with this Bartowski fellow. You never told me that. Do you know something about him, know where he is? Does he mean something to you?

His voice became more insistent. "I know something Rizzo doesn't, namely that, with the exception of that one time with Devon's brother, you don't date. Not since you've been here. I kept that to myself. But you had coffee _twice_ with the man who turned out to be the Tomek murder suspect, and never mentioned it to me. Do you know where he is? Do you _have feelings _for the guy?"

Sarah took a breath, her mind racing. She _did not_ look at the bag of take-out. Casey waited for her answer.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts? The action intensifies in the next chapter.


	17. Pastwords

A/N: More story.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Seventeen: Pastwords

* * *

Monday, November 8, 1965  
The Palmer House Hotel, Chicago

* * *

Casey stepped closer to Sarah. He noticed the to-go bag. Sarah still was not-noticing it.

"Well? Are you going to answer before your food gets cold?"

Sarah felt a little like she had the day she resigned from the CIA, although on that day she had been so sickened by it all, so profoundly ashamed of herself and the Agency, so angry, that any feeling of disloyalty or ungratefulness was wholly eclipsed. Here, though, that was not true. Her...feelings...for Chuck were such that she was not repentant about her disloyalty, but she felt it keenly. Casey had been good to her. He was another person, she realized, who had become a friend. Who knew she had so many? Friends. Not contacts, not marks. Friends.

Casey, her friend. Her employer.

"Casey, I…"

Casey peered at her closely. He put up his hand. "Look, Sarah, I know that transitioning back into civilian life can be hard, that it can take a lot more time than we think. When Ilsa and I came back from Korea, I had the devil of a time. Thank God for her! She held me through night sweats and screaming dreams. Helped me see that the people around me were not divided into friends and foes. Got me to where I didn't feel naked without my rifle.

"And then Mr. Hilton took a chance on me — saw something in me, I guess. He wanted the hotel run with 'military precision'. I told him that wasn't truly possible; the employees are not soldiers. But I've done my best."

Sarah started to talk but Casey kept his hand up. "As much as I owe him, as much as I love this hotel, I love my wife more. I hope never to have to choose between them, but if I had to, _had to_, mind you, I'd choose her in a heartbeat. A _heartbeat_.

"My point is this. If you have feelings for this Bartowski — I'm happy for you. Genuinely happy. You've looked haunted in quiet moments for far too long, Sarah Spook. But I have to say, _today_, despite looking tired, you do not look haunted. You look like a tired — and worried... — well, a tired and worried woman in love." He dropped his hand.

"So, let's not lie to each other. I know you'll protect the hotel up to the point where protecting it means leaving him unprotected. It's the woman you are, a _protectress_...Is there such a word?..." — he paused to consider his own question for a moment, then went on — "...and as long as you do that, we're _square_. I trust you and your instincts. I made no mistake when I hired you."

Sarah felt her eyes moisten; she rubbed them. "Casey…" she finally choked out.

He grunted uncomfortably. "Good luck, Sarah. And remember, the tape recorder's on the third floor. I'm around if you need me. Be careful of Rizzo." He gave her a sharp nod, parade-ground turned, and left the office before she could speak.

* * *

Sarah ate in the office quickly, once she recovered from Casey's visit. As she ate, she made a call. Sarah still had contacts at Langley, a couple of analysts, women, who she respected and who had respected her. One was in. Sarah gave her the phone number she found in the _Moe's _file in Larkin's office. They chatted for a moment, pleasantries, then Sarah ended the call. The woman would call her back when she had identified the number.

Sarah then took the blank page from Larkin's notebook and put it flat on her desk. She took a pencil from her desk drawer, and, holding it almost sideways, shaded over the complete surface. In a moment, words were visible, photo negatively, write on grey.

_Chuck Bartowski. Tall. Brown hair. Due to arrive on Thursday, Nov. 4. Flight originating in Burbank. Arrives Midway Airport. Reservations at the Blackmoor. Meeting with TA at GM on Friday afternoon. _

So Larkin had been waiting for Chuck, and knew was coming. Larkin had been tailing him, as Sarah had already figured out.

But why? Was Accardo _worried_ about meeting with Chuck? But why would Tony Accardo be worried about meeting with Chuck?

And why take the meeting at all? How did Chuck arrange it? She should have asked Chuck for the full story earlier, but she had been distracted in...various ways, some bad, some surpassingly _good_.

The phone rang, _tintinnabulating_.

It was the analyst from Langley. She reported, with a due degree of dread in her voice, that the number was Tony Accardo's private number, a number known to the CIA. She told Sarah to be careful, very careful, but she asked Sarah no questions. Sarah thanked her.

As Sarah put the phone down, Zondra came into the office. She shut the door behind her.

Sarah nonchalantly put the take-out bag on the floor behind her desk and then took a final bite of her lunch. After she swallowed, she looked up. "Ah, Agent Rizzo. Good afternoon."

Zondra frowned deeply. She stayed by the locked door.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Agent Walker."

Sarah's chest tightened but she calmly wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "I'm sorry, Zondra, what did you call me?"

"CIA Special Agent Sarah Walker. We finally...beat...the right bush, and your name crawled out from beneath it. " Zondra stalked toward Sarah's desk. "So, we now know _who_, and _what_, we are _dealing with_." Her index finger punched out the rhythm of her words, aimed right at Sarah.

"You must have beaten the wrong bush because I don't…"

"Stop. I know who you are, who you were. And I'll know more before the day ends. You never seemed like a hotel detective to me. Nothing like that Holbert — _that's _a hotel detective. And nothing like Devon," Zondra's voice softened a bit, "...a white knight in street clothes. No, you, Agent Walker, are something else, something much, much...darker. Does Casey know who he has working for him?"

Sarah held her expression bland. "And who is that?"

"The CIA's Ice Queen. _Frigid_. Cold, efficient, merciless, infiltrator, deep-cover op...a real ball-buster. — Or should I say a _literal_ ball-buster? Our informant told me that guy still walks sideways when he walks at all." Zondra cocked an eyebrow and smiled, a challenging taunt.

Sarah kept herself reined in. "Okay, so you know about my past. How is that relevant to our present?"

"Well, it makes me wonder just what you were up to accepting a second coffee invitation from Bartowski. But mainly it makes me wonder what you are really up to. I've told Casey, and now I will tell you. The Palmer House is forbidden to investigate the Tomek murder. This is a federal investigation and you have been told to stay out of it. More than once, now."

Sarah was silent for a second or two. "I guess we both know something about being a bitch, huh, Agent? We've both had to climb a ladder built by men, for men, a ladder they won't let us climb unless we're wearing a short skirt. And even then, the topmost rungs are off-limits."

Zondra nodded. "I suppose we do. But my work is clean...upright; I shower at night and then I'm as clean and innocent as a newborn. Not you. What you do, did, that's...not clean, upright. Nothing washes that off. I know what infiltration and deep cover involve, Agent Walker...burning marks, 'seductions', lots of compromises — and compromising positions, ass-peddling…"

Sarah stood up, unable to check herself, the memory of Sadie fresh in her mind, the things she wanted to tell and dreaded telling Chuck fresh in her mind. "Look, Zondra, I was what I was. But I got out. Yes, I burned marks, I ran 'seductions' — but I never slept with marks, I never 'ass-peddled', as you mean it. I used...myself...to distract bad men, lure them into traps, but nothing more…I won't argue about the _compromises_. They drove me out, but I will argue about the compromising _positions_...the insinuation that I was a...working girl with a CIA badge…"

Zondra backed up a step. "I just wanted to know what I was up against, how far you were, are, willing to go for the job. How far with Bartowski."

"I've told you, Zondra. Two coffees."

"Yes, you've told me. But that was before I knew you were a professional...liar. I'm onto you now, Agent Walker. You're mixed up in this in some way. Maybe just because Casey fears the good name of the Palmer House getting muddied somehow. But I am onto you now. We're watching you."

Sarah came out from behind the desk. She stood very close to Zondra and Sarah took off her glasses. "Then we understand each other. I am going to do my job. You do yours. And, speaking of which, why the nasty handling of Ellie Mills? Devon saw her last night after your little get-to-know-you session, and she was in a bad way. It bothered Devon."

_Bullseye. _Sarah saw Zondra blink, her lips pressed together. "I...There's evidence that links her to Maria Tomek. I was just doing my job. I'll explain that to Devon when he comes in tonight." Zondra took hold of herself. "Listen, _Sarah_, the charade is done. I know what you are."

Sarah let that go and continued to hold Zondra's eyes. "How long have you been partners with Lakoff?"

Zondra's eyes clouded. She had not expected that. "Why do you ask?"

"You two aren't the only ones who can beat the bushes."

Zondra's lips remained closed but her jaw was working. "Cheap tactic, Sarah. Lakoff's not been my partner long, but he's a lifelong agent. A good one."

Sarah shrugged. "Maybe. But, as you keep insisting, I've spent a lot of time in the dark. I've got an eye for shadows."

"Jesus, Walker. I guess there really isn't anything that's off-limits for a spy."

Zondra walked to the door and unlocked it. "Stay away from Ellie Mills, Sarah. And stay away from everyone else and anything else connected to this case. Or I'll take you out of the hotel, march you through the damn lobby with full fanfare, cuffed."

Zondra left Sarah standing in the office, Sarah's stomach filled with the old, low-grade nausea that she had carried around while still in the CIA.

The situation had gotten better (Casey) and worse (Zondra) in just a short time. But the real cause of her nausea was the thought of telling Chuck all that she had been, done. Zondra had brought it all back up, like bile.

* * *

Despite Zondra's visit, perhaps a little because of it, Sarah took the stairs up to the eighth floor, carrying the to-go bag. She cracked the stairwell door and then softly shut it as an elderly couple made their way from their room to the elevator. Then Sarah entered the hallway and stopped at Ellie's door. She listened but heard nothing. She knocked.

Devon answered the door. He blushed when he saw Sarah. "Hey, Sarah. I came in early. I wanted to see how Ellie, Eleanor, was doing." He suddenly seemed aware of the situation and glanced down the hallway. "Sorry," he whispered, "come in."

Sarah walked in. Ellie was seated on one end of her couch. The door to the bedroom was open, the bed made. Ellie looked up at Sarah with worry on her face. "Is Chuck okay?"

"Yes, Ellie. I just wanted to stop by to see you. I have some food here for Chuck."

Devon spoke. "If you want, Sarah, I can make the climb, take it to Chuck."

"Okay," Sarah said, watching the grateful look form on Ellie's face as Ellie looked at Devon, "that'd be great. Take the elevator up part of the way and climb from there. I know your knee isn't great on the stairs."

Devon looked embarrassed but nodded. He took the bag from Sarah and, after checking, he left the room.

Ellie watched him go. "He's...so nice, Sarah. We were just chatting a bit before you came in. Turns out we both want to be doctors. He's smart, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is. Everyone categorizes him as a jock, but he's not really, for all that he once was a gifted football player."

Ellie's eyes sparkled for a moment. "He was? Wait, is that why you mentioned his knee?"

"He didn't tell you? He was a star linebacker for Illinois, people compared him to Dick Butkus…"

"Who?"

"A truly great professional linebacker for the Chicago Bears. He went to Illinois too. Devon was supposed to be the next great middle linebacker when he blew out his knee. He hasn't ever said this to me in so many words, but I think he was so disappointed by the injury, the lost career, that he dropped out of school for a while. He's back now, at UIC. But it took him a while to let that dream die."

Ellie blinked. "There are all kinds of loss, aren't there?"

Sarah's nausea tugged at her. "Yes, Ellie, there are. — I've been putting off telling you something, but I have to tell you now, Ellie."

Ellie turned away from the door — she had been gazing absently at it — and returned her attention to Sarah. She looked immediately worried. "What?"

"Yesterday, I snuck into the FBI's room on the ninth floor. I looked at the desk and I found a Xerox of a letter."

Ellie's brow knitted in confusion. "A letter? What's that have to do with me?"

"It was from Aidan, Aidan Mills, to Maria Tomek."

The color drained from Ellie's face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Was there a date?"

"No, and I got interrupted; I didn't get to read the letter. Just the greeting and the closing."

Ellie sat still and quiet. Sarah stood and waited.

"Was it...a love letter?"

"I don't know, Ellie. Maybe, I just don't know. But Aidan never mentioned her to you?"

"No, he never did. But I knew so little about his past, especially before he came to LA. Do you think it might have been a letter written before he knew me? Maybe she was an old girlfriend?"

"I don't know. It was a Xerox, so I couldn't tell anything about the age of the original. I'm going to try to get back in there soon and read the letter. But Agent Rizzo now knows about my CIA...background, and she's going to start to take precautions against me, I fear."

"Does she suspect...you and Chuck?"

"No, not much, anyway. She certainly doesn't suspect he's here. But she suspects, knows, that I have been following up on the case, that Casey told me too. She's threatened me if she finds me following it up again."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. We're all in such an awful bind."

"I'm not sorry, Ellie. Your brother, he...I...you see...He's worth it...to me."

Some color returned to Ellie's face and she smiled. "Thanks, Sarah. That's always how I felt. Taking him on after our parents died, being unable to live the normal life of a girl my age, it was a sacrifice, sure, but I never regretted it. Although, I suppose the loss of those years probably had something to do with my first, delinquent summer with Aidan. Catching up on my wild-oat sowing, or something equally ridiculous and self-indulgent…"

"As you said, Ellie, there are all sorts of loss. Losing your childhood, or part of it...That's a hard thing."

Ellie looked closely at Sarah but did not ask the question Sarah could see in her eyes. "So, what now?"

"I've got things to do, things I need Chuck to do. I'm sorry to have told you about that letter, Ellie, but I didn't want to keep it from you. I'll try to figure it out as soon as I can."

Ellie nodded thoughtfully. "If you see Devon, thank him for thinking of me and stopping by."

* * *

Sarah took the stairs quickly to the third floor. She wanted to find the tape recorder and get it, unseen, to 2022. She was headed to the storage room when she ran into Louisa Murdoch.

"Hi, Miss Walker," Louisa said, not holding Sarah's gaze.

"I thought you weren't going to make it in today, Louisa. That's what Morgan told me."

"I wasn't. My husband's sick. It's a mess. We need both jobs to make it, but he's been so sick I've had to stay home to nurse him. But I was...able to get some help today, so I picked up an afternoon shift."

"Some _help_? A relative."

"Um...Yes, yeah, a cousin of mine who had the day off."

"Well, I hope he feels better, Louisa, your husband."

"Thanks, Miss Walker."

Louisa pushed her cart onto the elevator with a heavy stride. She was going down. Sarah watched her for a second, thinking. Then she went to the storage room.

She found the tape recorder easily enough, making sure that it had audiotape and that the cord was with it. She went to the housekeepers' room and grabbed an empty cart. She pushed it to the storage room door, then put the tape recorder on the cart, draping a pillowcase over it. She pushed the cart to the elevator and pushed the button. She stepped to the side as the doors opened. She peeked around; no one was on the elevator. She pushed the cart on and pushed the button for the twentieth floor.

* * *

Sarah had made her visit with Chuck all about business. Almost. There had been some frantic kissing after she arrived and before she left.

But in between, she read over the 'transcript' Chuck prepared and marked sections for him to read and record. They talked about whether there had been any music or ambient noise in the Green Mill when Chuck talked to Accardo; there hadn't been any. She left Chuck to make the recording.

She left with her low-grade nausea still lingering, nagging. She had started to say something to Chuck, but she had not been able to follow through. Zondra's words kept ringing in her ears, 'dark', 'not clean', 'not upright'. It would have been one thing if Sarah could treat the words as false. But while she might not mean them of herself as Zondra had, Sarah did not think of the words as false. They were too true in their way.

The words had chased her from the CIA, or at least they had dogged her footsteps as she left Langley. She thought she had left them behind when she got to Chicago, and she had, at least to the extent that she no longer actively heard them as she had before. But she now knew that they had still been behind her: she had missed the significance of much that had happened to her since she blew into the Windy City.

She had missed that she had made friends. Carina, first and foremost, Velma, Morgan, Devon, Casey. They did not just work with her, calculate how she could be of use to them. They cared about her. Carina, especially. The distance between them, a distance Sarah attributed to Carina and her roller derby friendship, had been more on Sarah's side than on Carina's. Sarah had no more experience at having friends than at having a boyfriend.

But somehow Chuck had broken the spell cast by the words that had been following Sarah. She had left Langley behind, and her badge, but not the form of life that she had inherited from her father and that had been more deeply ingrained at the Farm and during her years as an agent. _You can take the girl from the Farm, but you can't take the Farm from the girl. Unless you are Chuck Bartowski._ Still, she needed to tell him. The final exorcism of Joad, the CIA, the Farm. But would Chuck still want her when he really knew her?

She made herself put the question aside.

She would have faith in Chuck about this, as she had about Maria Tomek. But her faith in him could not still her doubt in herself, or keep her from shrinking at the thought of telling him.

* * *

Sarah met Carina at _Patel's _late in the afternoon, in the early darkness.

They ate, mostly unmolested by Lester, who was heading home as they arrived, and then they walked to the "L".

It was snowing again and the temperature had dropped sharply. The frozen city flashed by the windows, parts of it lit by streetlights, others sunk in the winter gloom.

Sarah told Carina about all that was going on. Carina was disappointed that her gift had not yet been shared with Chuck, the red lingerie. But she got a special delight from Sarah's embarrassment in admitting both that she had not worn it yet and that she was so eager to wear it.

They both grew more serious as they neared their apartment building.

* * *

Once Sarah and Carina were on the stairs leading up to their third-floor apartment, and the heavy wooden door closed, choking off the freezing wind, Sarah took out the S&W 60, its stainless steel gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"God, Sarah, where'd you get that thing? I thought the one you owned was, like, black, not silver, or stainless steel, or whatever that is..._The Woman with the Silver Gun_."

Sarah gave Carina a hard look. "What?"

"You know, the Ian Fleming _Bond_ novel, _The Man with the Golden Gun_. They've been serializing it in _Playboy._"

Sarah laughed quietly. "Funny you would mention that magazine. I didn't know you read that?"

Carina gave a slight shrug. "I don't — normally. But there're copies around in the break room at the Green Mill, and sometimes, when I have my coffee, I sit back there to give my legs and my bottom a break from non-stop eyeing."

Sarah started quietly up the stairs, stopping after a few to whisper to Carina: "Doesn't that strike you as weird, to take a break from being ogled to read a magazine devoted to ogling?"

Carina gave Sarah a sigh, then whispered back. "The print content is very good. Intelligent."

"Isn't that a little like lifting your from eyes from her body to say, 'But I _also_ appreciate her mind'?"

"Again, God, Sarah," Carina said softly. "What's got you in this mood, other than our apartment having been burglarized?"

"To answer your earlier question, I stole this gun from Bryce Larkin's office. From a drawer in the outer office file cabinet in which he kept this gun, bullets, cameras and film, and a box of condoms. Does that strike you as...revelatory?"

"All the...tools...of his trade. — The _tool_."

"Exactly. And in the inner office, his office, in his desk, was a gold _Playboy _lighter. — Maybe you and Larkin could get together to smoke, drink coffee and trade intelligent banter about the magazine's print content." Sarah punctuated the remark with a soft giggle.

Carina rolled her eyes so hard that the rolling was almost audible. "Lord, falling for Chuck is doing things to you, Sarah. And I think I like them."

"Okay, enough. Be quiet. Let me go first. Stay in the hallway 'til I tell you to come in the apartment."

Carina's face sobered. She nodded one time and Sarah started up the steps again. Once on the landing, she motioned, redundantly, for Carina to be quiet, to wait.

Sarah put her key in the door and turned it slowly. She pushed the door inward. The apartment was dark. She reached in and turned on the hallway light. There were coats on the floor but nothing looked worrisome otherwise. Keeping the gun ahead of her, Sarah went in. She walked to the entrance of the kitchen. Light from the hallway lit it adequately. Drawers were open. A pan was on the floor.

Sarah passed the stand with the phone and pushed open the door of her room. The bed was a mess, the mattress crooked on the box springs. Her nightstand's top drawer was open. Her gun. She stepped inside and looked. Her gun was still there, where she had left it Saturday. She went back and turned on the light so that she could see clearly. She scanned her room, blinking in the bright light. Her closet door was open, some of her clothes on the floor. Her dresser drawers were askew.

And then she saw it. In the middle of her bed among the lumpy, irregular mounds of covers: the sheet of paper from her notebook, the one with Chuck's name doodled in the corner. _Shit. _Clearly Larkin had figured out that she was the 'S' from the note to 'C', that the phone number was hers. He — or someone — had come to the apartment hoping to find Chuck or something that would lead to Chuck.

The note, the 'S' and 'C' note, was on Palmer House stationary. She had known that from the beginning; Chuck had registered there as a guest; Larkin knew that. The sheet from her notebook was not on Palmer House stationery, but the notes she had made, guest names, room numbers, observations, would suggest a hotel. Larkin perhaps now knew that Sarah worked there. Worked there...

She fought back panic. The intruder had been in the apartment in the morning. No one had shown up at the hotel all day.

And then panic gripped her and she could not fight it back.

_Louisa_. Why was she there? She had called in. Her sick husband. But she came to work. Money problems. A cousin. Louisa knew Sarah worked there. And who better to search the hotel than a hotel maid? Larkin couldn't do it himself, not without drawing attention. But Louisa...

_Oh, no. Oh, no. _Sarah ran to Carina's room and checked it. Empty. She ran out to the landing. "Carina, it's clear. Go inside. Prop a chair against the door and call the super in the morning. I have to go back to the Palmer House."

Carina registered Sarah's panic. "Chuck?"

"They've guessed I've hidden him there, and they've got someone looking."

There was no reason for Louisa to check 2022 in particular. There were so many rooms. Still…

* * *

Sarah shivered as she stepped outside. Then she felt the barrel of a gun pushed into her back. A voice she did not recognize growled in her ear. "The green car on the curb. Get inside. Now! Move!"

The man was standing to her side. The passenger window of the green car was down, a gun pointed at her from inside it. The rear door of the car was open. She felt the barrel push her forward.

* * *

A/N: We are in the middle of the second arc.

_Hotel Detective_ may end here. Reviews are down. I came here to write for reaction — not validation — those are two different things. Given that I wanted reaction, and wanted to figure out what works and what does not, there's no reason to write when I can gauge virtually nothing of my reader's reactions.

So, I am going to step away from the story for a few days and decide whether it is worth continuing. And don't give me nonsense about writing for the pure joy of it or out of selfless devotion to the craft. I have plenty of writing projects going on, almost any of which would benefit from the time I am giving this, so I am as devoted to the craft as ever, even if I take this story down.

If the story's no good, it's no good. I certainly knew it was risky. A different pace, a large cast of characters, a twisting plot.

Thoughts?


	18. Nemur and Strauss

A/N: Some more story. Just passing the halfway mark of the story.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Eighteen: Nemur and Strauss

* * *

Sarah could see no way of escape; the gun in her back, the man at her side. The gun trained on her from inside the car. She tried to clear her mind — but, unlike dangerous moments in her days as an agent, her heart also needed clearing. Even as the gun jabbed her ribs, her heart was with Chuck; she was more afraid for him than for herself.

It was a wholly new sensation: she had, of course, worried about other agents involved in her missions, worked to keep them safe, but that had been work, duty, mission-dictated, everything a means to the mission end. But this, her fear for Chuck, had nothing to do with a mission and everything to do with him. She had to find a way out of this predicament, a way back to the Palmer House.

She got into the car, sliding along the back seat toward the opposite door. There were two men in the front seat, neither of whom Sarah could recall having seen before. The one in the passenger seat kept his gun cooly and steadily on her. He had blonde hair, a buzz cut, and very light blue eyes. The other man, the driver, was balding. He wore glasses and he looked at her through their lenses and in the reflection of the rearview mirror. His eyes were dark brown, almost black.

The car was a Chrysler — a new Crown Imperial, Sarah thought — and the backseat was large. The man who had been beside her, his gun in her back, was still standing outside of the car, his head and shoulders obscured from Sarah's view. The man was evidently checking the street, checking to see if anyone had witnessed the scene. He finally bent down to get into the car and Sarah gasped.

The man with the gun was Jeff Barnes.

She had not recognized his voice; she barely recognized him now. His eyes, normally glassy and dull, were glinting and alive. His face seemed hard, etched, not doughy and blurry. The clumsy thief of the Palmer House had been transfigured into something — someone — else. Like a lump of clay that had been fired in a kiln.

He looked at her and smiled, a smile full of confidence and cunning. Sarah shook her head. The whole experience was dreamlike, gossamer but cold.

The car pulled away from the curb and Jeff spoke to the driver. "You know where we are going." The balding man nodded.

Jeff turned to Sarah, his smile still in place. "Miss Walker, once-Agent Walker, the fabled Ice Queen, let me introduce Mr. Nemur and Mr. Strauss." He nodded first at the balding man, then the blonde one.

Sarah finally made her mouth work. "Jeff? Jeff Barnes?"

He chuckled, leaning back in the seat but keeping the gun on her. "Yes, that is one of my names. But I think you know me as...Algernon."

Sarah sat stupefied, too shocked to speak. _Algernon? _Algernon was the code name of Russia's most gifted deep-cover spy, a man the CIA had tried to capture, even to identify, for years, without any success. She had never been sent on a mission that took her path across his but she knew of him by codename. All of Langley did, although some dismissed him as a myth.

Algernon. Sarah's CIA career had been shaped by the Cold War. She had spent years fighting Russian shadows, the KGB. Algernon's was the KGB's shadowiest shadow.

"You..._You_ are…_Algernon_?"

He chuckled again. "Yes, yes, I am. I believe you now have some sense of my surprise when I realized the hotel detective who had chased me from the Palmer House had been the Ice Queen. I had seen a photograph of you, but it was from long ago when you first joined the Central Intelligence Agency, and you looked, let's say, quite different then."

"How do you know I used to be CIA?" Sarah asked the question, still stunned, not quite looking at Jeff, at Algernon.

Jeff took a moment but did not take his eyes off of her. "Well, I gather you haven't kept it that much of a secret, but it never occurred to me until I heard you tell it to your boyfriend."

"Heard me?" Sarah was lost. _When did I...In the hotel room...in 2022_? She swallowed, her heart rate sinking as she began to regain control of herself, her old mission habits coming to the fore. "You've bugged 2022?" The possibility had never even crossed Sarah's mind. _But Jeff had come out of the room when Andy saw Jeff, when Jeff shot Andy with that tranq._ _Damn it! I was still just thinking of him as Jeff Barnes. It never occurred to me…Algernon. _

Jeff laughed at her. "Yes, Agent Walker, or Detective Walker, yes. I was in that room for a reason, but it was not a burglar's reason. It was for another reason, not a Jeff Barnes reason, but an Algernon reason. I had a plan, a good plan, a plan that went sideways…"

Sarah made herself look at Algernon. It was Jeff. "You have 2022 bugged…But that means…" Despite herself, Sarah blushed hammer-and-sickle red.

Jeff smirked at her and Strauss turned to leer at her openly. Jeff spoke, his tone light. "Yes, yes, it does. Nemur and Strauss were...shall we say, disappointed...that you and Mr. Bartowski needed to remain so _quiet_. Strauss also lamented that we did not have any cameras in the room, since," Algernon glanced at Strauss, "how did you put it, 'it would have been most enjoyable to watch as well as hear the Ice Queen melt,' correct, Strauss?" Strauss nodded, his buzz cut shining in the lights of the car behind them.

"Strauss is something of a poet, Detective Walker."

The thought that someone had been listening to her and Chuck make love was awful, but Sarah had no time to dwell on it. "You mentioned a plan?"

"Yes, you see, I was supposed to meet someone at the Palmer House, in Room 2022. That person was supposed to bring me records, books, in which I have a special interest. We were going to meet in 2022, but she was...unavoidably detained…eternally detained."

"Maria Tomek."

"Yes, poor, dead, Maria Tomek. _Kaput._"

"So, you didn't kill her?"

"Detective Walker, please. I am a spy, but I am also a civilized man. I kill only when killing is unavoidable. No, Detective, I did not kill Maria Tomek, nor did any of my associates, or anyone on...my side. This was an _American_ killing."

It was crazy, given the situation, but Sarah set up, her heart expanding. "Do you know who _did_?"

Algernon shrugged, shaking his head. "No, we had no bug in her room. None of us saw who did it. We assume it was a mob hit, but evidently, the FBI suspects Mr. Bartowski. We are, frankly, unsure — but like you, we do not believe it was Mr. Bartowski. "

A thought struck Sarah, a non-sequitur, but it was out before she could classify it as such. "But you...you are an..._American._"

Algernon grinned and answered in a showy southern drawl. "As American as apple pie, Darlin'."

Sarah recoiled from him.

A puzzled look passed over his face, then he nodded. "Ah, yes, _Daddy. _You see, we know quite a bit about your history, Detective Walker, including your days before the CIA. We don't know much — but we know enough to know that your childhood was not...idyllic. Not entirely sugar and spice and everything nice. You have been lying for your entire life, a liar before you came of age, Daddy's liar, your lies ultimately his. And then you became Joad's liar. But those lies, though directed by him, were your own."

Algernon said 'Joad' with noticeable venom.

"Not a big fan of the Director?" Sarah did not want to talk about her childhood with Algernon. With anyone, really. _Chuck, maybe. Yes, Chuck._

"No, I am not a fan. I'd like to think of him as my _nemesis_, and of me as his, but I realize that is a bit too romantic a way of thinking. But he is the worst sort of man, not because of his political views but because he has none, although he pretends he does. I wish to fight an enemy who believes in something, Detective, something other than himself or herself. Honor among spies, you see. But there can be little honor when a hollow man presides over one side. His hollowness...spreads."

Sarah stared at Algernon. As he continued talking, he became increasingly intense, increasingly eloquent. She had almost lost Jeff Barnes in Algernon.

She shook her head, trying to bring back the bumbling thief, but he was gone. Perhaps that was partly because what Algernon said was true. Joad _was_ hollow. Sarah had increasingly come to know it, and to feel him somehow hollowing her out too. The Interrogation Class had been a prime example. But so too had been Paris.

"I see, Detective, that you do not disagree with me. Perhaps that is why you found your way out of our little Cold War and became instead interested in..._Hot-Pillow Houses_?"

Sarah did not answer. "What is it, Jeff, Algernon, that you want with me, from me?"

"I have come to broker a deal. I want the records Maria Tomek had, the Manny Sklar records."

"Why? What does Moscow care about the Chicago Outfit?"

"That is not your concern, Detective. Your concern is finding those records. Searching for them, for me, would be much more difficult. My use of that tranq gun in your hotel, while unavoidable, was a mistake, one I do not normally make, and I cannot risk showing up inside the Palmer House again. So, you will be my legs, and my eyes, ears, and hands. You will find them for me."

"Maria Tomek was going to just...give them to you? To a Russian spy, to the KGB?"

"Not just give. We were going to pay her handsomely, and she was planning to defect."

"Wait," Sarah said, waving her hands until she saw Algernon's hand tighten on his gun, "you're telling me she was defecting...East...America to the Soviet Union?"

Algernon nodded, a large smile on his face. "With a hammer in one hand, a sickle in the other, and a worker's song in her heart."

"Shit."

"Indeed. Just my reaction when she was killed before we could meet with her, talk to her, arrange to get the records."

"But if you want them, they must have more in them than incriminating evidence against Tony Accardo."

Algernon did not nod or shake his head. "Not a matter for your speculation, Detective."

"But, why would you ever imagine I would...Oh, my God, Chuck. You have Chuck."

"No, Detective, although we did think about that and although it remains a measure we might take. But it is very risky; hard to get him out of the hotel. FBI, police, who knows? No, given the events in 2022, and given the lengths to which you seem willing to go to save Mr. Bartowski, we thought we might be able to enlist you another way, while leaving him where he is. You see, the KGB's scientists have been working on a slow-acting poison. It is quite miraculous. Once in the bloodstream, it is undetectable, except to a very precise testing mechanism made only in the Soviet Union. Your CIA, your government, knows nothing of the poison or the technology involved. Once introduced into the bloodstream, the toxin takes approximately 60 hours to produce death. The...victim...is not symptomatic before the final hours."

Sarah felt like she could not breathe, like a clamp was squeezing her heart.

"There is an antidote. As of," Algernon held up his wrist so that the light from the car behind them lit up his watch face, "an hour ago, another of my agents entered 2022 and tranqed your...boyfriend. He then dosed him with the toxin."

"I. Will. Kill. You. You. Bastard."

Algernon sat back, raising his gun higher. "Ah, there she is, the Ice Queen. Melted, perhaps, but now re-formed. And not always quiet." Strauss was watching Sarah closely now from the front seat.

"So, you have a little less than 60 hours in which to find Maria Tomek's records and give them to me.

"I will trade you the antidote for the records," he smiled, "_even Steven, _as we Americans say. If you let anyone in on what we have done to Mr. Bartowski, I will not give you the antidote, and Mr. Bartowski will die. His final few hours will be...remarkably unpleasant."

Sarah steeled herself, made herself breathe. "How can I know that you've actually done it, poisoned him."

"You can't. But I should show you something."

Nemur took one hand off the wheel and clicked on the dome light. Strauss handed a manila folder over the seat to Algernon. He opened it and handed Sarah a photograph.

She felt her stomach heave — and she was not inexperienced with horrors. A woman was in the photograph, her limbs knotted unnaturally, so severely that some of her bones must have been fractured, broken. She was twisted on the ground in a pool of bloody vomit, her tongue extended from her mouth, her face set in agony.

"One of our test victims. You cannot know we have dosed Mr. Bartowski, but are you willing to take this chance with him? Oh, and one other thing. Do not forget that, despite her desire to solve the murder of the woman she was supposed to protect, Agent Rizzo's truest interest is in finding those records, too. If she finds them first, well..." Algernon waved the photograph and it seemed to come to horrific life, a nightmarish one-page flipbook.

Sarah shook her head. "How can I contact you once I have the records?"

"Just say that you have them, while you are standing in Room 2022, sort of like Dorothy and her Ruby Slippers. 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home'. I will call the room directly and give you instructions."

The car pulled over. Sarah recognized the street. It was not far from the Palmer House. "Good hunting, Agent Walker. Welcome back into the shadows. You have 58 and one-half hours before Mr. Bartowski ties himself in knots. I hate to do this, but, you know, the fortunes of the Cold War."

Sarah got out of the car. She looked at the license plate but it was a temporary tag. She was sure it was stolen, the tag or the car. Maybe both.

She did not stay to watch the car disappear. She began to run toward the Palmer House. Toward Chuck. Toward her boyfriend.

* * *

Sarah opened 2022. It was dark. She flicked the light.

Chuck was asleep on the bed. He was wearing only his boxers. A tranq dart was still embedded in his abdomen.

Sarah gave a muffled cry and ran to the bathroom. She ran a glass of water and grabbed a handful of toilet paper. She ran back to the bed. With delicate care, she wrapped the toilet paper around the dart and pulled it out of Chuck, and put it in the nightstand drawer. The feeling of it leaving his body made her slightly dizzy. Then she started looking him over, as closely as she could, trying to find evidence of another needle.

She could not find it. She found a spot on his neck but it might have been nothing more than a place he nicked himself while shaving. She was peering at it as closely as she could when she felt a hand on her bottom.

"SSssarah. S'that you?" She pulled up so that she could see his eyes. They were out-of-focus still, druggy. "SSssarah, I ssshouldnnnn't say thisss, cause, cause it'lllll scare you. I thoughttt'd scare meeee, toooo. But it reallly doessssn't. I luuuuv youuu, I'm almost cert...certa...I'm almossst ssure."

Sarah felt her tears form in her eyes. She sat up and wiped at them with her hand, Chuck seemed to have fallen under again.

She looked around the room, bewildered. The tape recorder was on the armchair. The 'transcript' Chuck wrote beside it. It looked like he had made the tape, the one she had planned to use against Larkin.

Did it matter now who killed Maria Tomek? All that mattered was the threat to Chuck, the possibility he had been poisoned.

But maybe the killer had found something in Maria Tomek's room? Or maybe she had told the killer something? Maybe The Clown killed her and maybe he already found the books, gave them to Accardo?

No, she needed to know who killed Tomek. The problem was now that she was not just pitted against Rizzo and Lakoff and Larkin and Shaw and The Clown and Accardo, she was pitted against Algernon and the KGB. And the KGB knew where Chuck was and had the room bugged. She could not remove the bugs — that had been an unspoken point of Algernon's when he told her to say she had the books while standing in the room.

Chuck moved on the bed, groaned lightly. Sarah put her hand on his head. He did not feel feverish. He would likely wake up from the drug soon. _Oh, God, what do I tell him when he wakes up? What do I tell Ellie? Do I tell Ellie?_

Sarah felt dizzy, utterly and completely overwhelmed. As an agent, she had been a model of competence. Now…

She shook herself, took a deep breath. She wasn't going to make anything better by falling apart herself. What had Algernon said?

_Welcome back to the shadows._

She grabbed a sheet of hotel stationery and she wrote Chuck a quick note.

* * *

_C,_

_Stopped by. You were asleep. You were talking in your sleep. You're charming when you are somnambulistic. _

_Something came up that brought me back to the hotel. I hope to return in another couple of hours. Go back to sleep. I will join you as soon as I can._

Her hand paused.

_Yours,_

_S_

* * *

Sarah found Devon in the basement office. He was on break, drinking coffee and working problems from a college chemistry book.

He did a double-take when she came into the room. "Sarah? I thought you were going to spend tonight at home? That's what your note said." He held up the pink rectangle, waving it, and Sarah flashed back on the Algernon waving the photograph.

"Something came up. Have you been up on the twentieth floor?" She asked the question in a whisper.

"No, should I have been?" He whispered too.

"No, but did you see anyone in the hotel who...attracted your attention?"

He shook his head. "I did have a weird conversation with Agent Rizzo. She seemed to be trying to convince me that Mrs. Mills, um, Ellie, might be involved in the Tomek murder. I told her I just didn't think so. She seemed...well," Devon lowered his already whispery more, "...pissed."

Sarah could not think of any way to protect Chuck. Devon would be expected to be back in the lobby. He could do a corridor pass or two, but that was all. She asked him to do it and he agreed.

When he left the office, she double-checked her gun, Larkin's gun. She still had her combat knife.

She had thought she might face Larkin earlier that day. Events had not worked out for that to happen. Too bad for him. Earlier, he would have faced Detective Walker. Tonight, he would get a visit from Agent Walker, the Ice Queen.

She had melted. She had re-formed, crystallized.

* * *

Sarah had never been to Bryce Larkin's apartment, although he had tried to finagle her there on each of their three dates. Especially the third, which Larkin had expected to end a particular way. Sarah could still remember the dumbfounded look on his face as she got into a cab.

It was late, and it was cold, and it was going to be hard to find a cab now. She stood down the block from the hotel and signaled at several. Finally, one stopped.

She slid inside and gave the man the address. He nodded. He was wearing a Bears cap and his face was swallowed by a dark beard. He did not speak.

Sarah could feel the bent bobby pins she had used earlier in the day in her coat pocket. She would have to get into the building and then into Larkin's apartment. If she succeeded, Bryce Larkin would finally have Sarah Walker in his bedroom.

Had Algernon poisoned Chuck? How could Sarah know? What he told her was not outside the bounds of possibility, even if it seemed unlikely. If she took Chuck for medical help, she would expose him to the FBI, the mob. The KGB too.

Maybe Ellie could help. Ellie had been in medical school; she wanted to go back. Sarah would have to talk to her as soon as she got back to the hotel. But she would have to make sure Rizzo was not aware of the visit. Sarah would need to get Ellie up to Chuck's room.

"Here we are," the beard pronounced his only words. "Jesus, it's getting cold."

Sarah nodded as she paid. The snow was swirling in the beams of the headlights, the wind blowing it almost sideways.

She got out of the car and looked up at Larkin's dark apartment building. His room was on the third floor. Now she just needed to get inside.

She shivered. Cold.

_Chuck loves me. He's almost sure. _Warm.

With a grim smile, she walked up to the enshadowed entrance to the apartment building, her hand in her coat pocket, wrapped around the combat knife's hilt.

* * *

A/N: A major chapter in our story. Some things are slowly coming into focus. Some folks too.

I appreciate the responses to the last chapter. I had this chapter written already, so I decided to post it. I thought it was a fun chapter. Still making up my mind on whether to continue.

Nemur and Strauss are the two scientists who develop the intelligence-enhancing surgery in _Flowers for Algernon._

Thoughts?


	19. Sarah Spook

A/N: Well, social distancing means more time for writing, I guess.

My university canceled face-to-face classes for a month, so it's just me and this here Mac for the foreseeable future. I may as well go on with the story, just to keep my hands thinking. Thanks to all who've been commenting!

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Nineteen: Sarah Spook

* * *

Late Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
Chicago, Illinois  
Bryce Larkin's Apartment Building

* * *

Sarah stepped into the darkness of Larkin's apartment building doorway as an elderly man with a Chihuahua on a short leash exited the building, letting out light as well as his dog.

"C'mon, Grumble, it's time for your evening constitutional."

The man looked up from the dog to Sarah and she reset her features into a wide smile, slightly vapid. The man nodded and clicked his tongue at Grumble, encouraging him to move along.

Grumble vacated the doorway and the man held the door for Sarah. Behind her, she heard Grumble growl, then the old man growled too, at a harmonizing pitch.

Sarah pushed the elevator button for the third floor.

"Yes, Grumble," she heard the old man mutter as the door closed, "another _sexcess_ for Larkin. — No, I don't know why you can't get as lucky. Maybe size does matter. — C'mon, I know, I know, it would have to be the size of the _asshole_..." the man added as the dog emitted a series of annoyed yips.

Sarah was too deep in thought to react to the human-to-toy-canine banter. She was trying to calculate, to understand.

The elevator was descending slowly. She looked at the numbers but did not recognize them.

Algernon told her that she had fifty-eight and a half hours when he let her out of the car.

That meant that Chuck must have been poisoned, assuming it was true, at around 10 pm Monday night. It was now 12:30 am on Tuesday morning.

She had hidden Chuck in a room bugged by the KGB. _Of all the crazy bad luck! _Likely, the KGB had not had an opportunity to retrieve the bugs. Perhaps they never intended to.

But at some point, they heard her bring Chuck into the room and they began to piece everything together as they listened in to the series of conversations, and other activities, in the room.

She knew why Algernon had been so successful. He took full advantage of opportunities. A good spy was a good opportunist. _Luck loves skill, as the old saying goes_. Why risk himself when he could have Sarah run the risks for him? She had access to places and people he did not; he had made sure she was highly motivated.

She realized that he must have been using the Palmer House for meets or drops for weeks, indeed maybe months. His moony, half-wit thief cover had been pitch-perfect. But Sarah had tingled when she found Andy in the hallway, found that dart. She should have followed up on it. She put the dart away and forgot it. But she had been tingling a lot at the time, and not just for bad reasons.

That Algernon had revealed himself to her was not, all things considered, a good sign. Perhaps that had not been his intention. Perhaps he and Nemur and Strauss had come to her apartment building expecting to tranq her as they had Chuck, then take her somewhere and give her instructions while keeping her blindfolded. Or maybe Algernon was playing an even deeper game than Sarah knew, a game that made his revealing of himself a necessary move? She was not sure what that game would be. Had he really intended to pay Maria Tomek for the records? Had she really intended to defect?

The elevator arrived. Sarah got on and forced thoughts about Algernon from her mind.

She needed to convince Larkin to tell her all he knew about Chuck, about Tony Accardo. To do that, she needed to get into his apartment and take control of him immediately. She could not afford to fail.

The elevator stopped. Sarah checked the hallway. The old feeling, the feeling of being Agent Walker, was descending on her, and, as much as she needed it, she did not welcome it, want it. _Back in the shadows. And that was the problem with shadows. They were impossible to outrun, weren't they?_ She felt a numbness in her heart, felt it growing. _How many times can a woman numb herself before feeling refuses to return?_

By the time she was at Larkin's door, she was almost Sarah Spook. _Damn it, Casey._

She took the bobby pins out of her pocket and scanned the hallway again. She started working on the lock. Her hands were shaking, her worry about Chuck compounded by her exhaustion. She had slept little since Friday. But the shaking also seemed to combine with the numbness that was pulsing from her heart, stealing the feeling from her extremities. Blowing out a breath, she stopped and let her hands relax. After a moment, her old habits, her infiltration skills, took over, and the lock was open. Spook.

She turned the knob slowly, pushing on the door. It opened with a subtle creak. Grimacing, she continued to push until she could slip inside. As soon as she was in, she shut the door. She stood, her back to it, getting the layout of the place.

Even before the apartment registered on her eyes, it did so on her nose: a strong, cloying odor of Marlboros and Old Spice Lime. She knew the tandem odor all-too-well, having dreaded it every Monday morning while she worked with Larkin. During the week, she would become used to it enough to ignore it, nose-blind, but it was a renewed insult each Monday.

_What the hell was I thinking? How could I have gone out with a man who smelled like cheap citrus soap somehow set ablaze? _She shook her head at herself. _Sarah, you were an idiot, trying to make yourself like him when even your nose knew it couldn't work. How out of touch with your heart were you?_

The apartment slowly became visible in the darkness, its colors registering on her. She was standing in the living room. There was a long, heavy couch, black leather, and two matching armchairs. A dark wooden coffee table was centered among them.

On it was a large, crystal ashtray, mounded with ashes and butts. Beside it stood a matching, crystal lighter. Beside it was a tumbler, a small amount of amber liquid in its bottom.

The floor was furred in very deep shag carpet, some shade of orange. A large stereo was on one side of the room. Above it hung a painting, a nude woman, its florid style pornographic, not artistic.

To her right was a small kitchen, and above the kitchen sink was a cutaway that looked into the living room. Various bottles were stationed there, whiskey and other liquors. To the left, was a door that presumably went into the bedroom — she could hear snoring beyond it.

Sarah took out Larkin's gun. She wanted the psychological shock of it. Padding soundlessly, she approached the bedroom door. The door was slightly ajar. She leaned her shoulder into it gently, pushing it open, the silver gun extended. The door opened.

Larkin was asleep in his clothes, shoes off but socks still on, atop his made bed. The bed was king-sized and it dwarfed Larkin, reminding Sarah that she was as tall as he, maybe taller. With the door open, his snores were out-sized, ragged, the snores of a two or three packs-a-day smoker. Another ashtray, smaller and metal, was on Larkin's nightstand, also full of butts.

Sarah moved around the bed to the side of it nearest Larkin's head, the nightstand side. She was able to put the gun to Larkin's face and still reach the lamp with her other hand. Larkin's mouth was open. Sarah put the short barrel of the gun into it and clicked on the light.

"Wake up, Bryce," Sarah commanded, her voice forceful, loud. "Now!"

Larkin's eyes snapped open and his mouth shut on the barrel of the gun. His eyes went wide and crossed as he stared at its bright silver. His body tensed for a second, then he looked into her blue arctic eyes and went limp. Limp — but surprised, shocked.

She smiled joylessly. "As I recall, Bryce, the last time we spoke, it was about _comestibles. _Now, unless I am confused, lead is not a comestible, although people have been known to _eat it._ You will get a taste unless you do exactly what I say. Deviate even a hair's breadth from my orders, and I will maim you or kill you. And I'll do it with as little care and as little concern for consequences as you showed when you deflowered that poor kid working in your office."

Larkin's eyes got larger. The words came bitter off Sarah's tongue; she imagined Chuck hearing her say them. She tried to stop imagining that. She had to do this — for Chuck.

Sarah's made her expression colder. "I see that you see your backup weapon." She rotated it slightly, admiring it, while leaving the barrel between his too-white teeth. " I like it. Thanks for it. I'm going to take it out of your mouth now and you are going to answer some questions. Do you understand?"

Larkin nodded once. She pulled the gun from his mouth.

"You bitch!"

Sarah hammered his mouth with the butt of the handle. Larkin's hands went to his mouth. A moment later, he pulled them away, blood smeared on his lips and cheeks.

"Goddamn you," he said quietly, "you loosened my front teeth." He put his finger in his mouth. "You chipped one."

"You'll suffer worse if you don't tell me what I want to know. You see Bryce, I was not a _secretary_ at Langley — I was a full-fledged field agent, deep cover. I'm from the majors, Bryce. You're still playing tee-ball. You have no idea what I am prepared to do right now; you are overmatched."

Larkin moved his front teeth with his finger, glaring at her, frustrated, trying to catch up. "I assume this is about _Mr. Wonderful, _that Bartowski clown."

"Call him a clown again and those teeth will go from loose to lost." Sarah bared her teeth at him in what she knew was a ghoulish smile.

"Okay, okay, what do you want to know?" He spit blood into his hand and wiped it on his pants.

Sarah's stomach knotted.

* * *

Suddenly, she was back at the Farm, Camp Peary, reporting for the 'premier course' Joad had instituted in Interrogation. It was to last for three weeks, and Sarah was part of the third group to cycle through. She had been out-of-the-country, in France, and had missed earlier cycles.

The training required that anyone who wanted to take the course had to first go through its three weeks as an interrogatee, not as an interrogator. The three weeks had been three weeks in the Inferno. She was stripped naked, starved, then fed rancid food. At one point, she had been beaten as part of the interrogators' training, been forced to play Russian roulette with a gun that might or might not have been loaded.

It had ended with one of the instructors trying to force her into sex with him. He had underestimated her, her power of endurance, her reserves of strength.

She had beaten him savagely. She would have killed him and kept killing him if others had not stopped her.

The Inferno. The 'premier course'.

That Joad could create such a course and put agents through it had finished him in Sarah's eyes. Finished the CIA for her. She had realized the cold, depraved logic of the course. Each group of 'victims', humiliated and enraged, would treat the next worse than they had been treated, a steady, animalistic escalation of horrors, physical and psychological.

Algernon's phrase came back to her: Joad was hollow and his hollowness spread, hollowing out others. It was true. She had witnessed it, almost succumbed to it.

And Joad had told her the course was his way of making Paris up to her.

Chuck had asked if she had been to Paris. Holbert guessed she had been to France.

Paris, France... She cut the thought off.

* * *

Larkin was waiting for her to answer his question, ask her questions.

"First question: who killed Maria Tomek?"

Larkin's eyes darkened. Fear. But doubt, also. "I don't know."

Sarah drew the gun back as if to hit him again.

"No, I really don't. I figure it was Joe. Joey. The Clown. But I don't know it for a fact."

"But you know it wasn't Chuck Bartowski."

Larkin shrugged as well as he could while on his back. "I wasn't there but, yeah, it's clear that cl…that guy didn't do it. He'd have choked on his peppermint."

"Bryce...don't make me hurt you more." She put the gun closer to his face. "You were supposed to help frame him for it, right?"

Larkin lunged up. But Sarah was ready. She brought the gun down across his face, pounding him back down and tearing the flesh on his nose. He lay there bleeding and panting. He nodded.

"And, you've been working for Tony Accardo."

Larkin faced away from her but nodded. "And Detective Shaw is on the Outfit payroll too?"

He turned toward her and the knots in her stomach tightened. She hated this.

Larkin seemed more pathetic to her now than anything else. A less-than-middling detective playing out some twisted Philip Marlow fantasy, all posing satyr, with his liquor, his cigarettes, his women. His looks helped him with the last, but his looks could not make him a better detective.

"Yes."

"Where can I find Joey the Clown? The FBI thinks he's not in town or wasn't, but I saw him with you at that motel this morning."

Larkin hesitated, then he gave Sarah an address. "Get up, Bryce, you're coming with me. Where are your car keys?"

He fished them out of his pants, tossed them to her. She put them in her pocket.

He started to bend over, grab his shoes. "No, you don't get to wear those."

"Damn it, Walker. It's winter. It's snowing!"

"Then you shouldn't _run_, should you? And just so you know," she reached into her jacket and pulled out the sheathed combat knife, "I'm better with this than with a gun. If you run, we'll leave little pieces of you in the snow, Bryce."

Larkin swallowed. He nodded.

Sarah put the knife away, then grabbed a blanket, folded on the chest at the foot of the bed. She put the gun in Larkin's back. She led him out of the apartment, onto the elevator, and into the parking deck below the building.

She opened his Mustang's trunk. He gave her a look and she stared him down. He climbed in. She tossed him the blanket and shut the trunk.

The parking garage was cold. A cold wind swept, scythe-like, into it. The lights were dim, the shadows long, so long they reached all the way to Sarah.

* * *

Larkin had been one thing. Joey The Clown was another.

Sarah sat in the car. She heard and felt Larkin move in the trunk. He was not going anywhere. He would not freeze, but he was not going to enjoy their outing.

The engine of the Mustang throbbed to life. Sarah reversed out of the parking spot, turned on the lights, and pulled from the deck out onto the street.

The snow was falling still, maybe faster than when she got out of the taxi.

* * *

It had been snowing that night in Paris too.

Joad had phoned her from Washington to brief her on the meeting. An overseas call. Rare. Special.

She had understood it was to be more or less by the book. She would wait at a cafe and a woman would approach her.

That was not what happened.

Not at all.

* * *

_Honk!_

Sarah heard the horn of the snowplow just in time to swerve out of its way. She had left the city, going north, and was now in a residential neighborhood.

Like many of the Outfits leaders or major players, Joey Lombardo lived in a modest suburb of the city. Sarah slowed down as she got nearer to his address. She pulled to the curb a block or so from his house.

She did not know much about him. She knew his face from the papers. He had gotten the nickname, The Clown, by mugging for mug shots and for once leaving a trial at the Chicago courthouse, walking with an open newspaper in front, a small rectangle cut out of it so that he could see where he was going. He might be The Clown but he was no clown. He was a stone-cold killer. Sarah knew the type. There had been such among the agents at Langley. Men, and a couple of women, who were agents because they wanted a license to kill, because they lived to kill.

She had been partnered with one in Paris.

* * *

Sarah shook her head and shut off the car. She heard Larkin's muffled voice. "I'm freezing to death, maybe bleeding to death."

"Wrap up and settle in, Bryce. You'll live. The cold will slow the bleeding." Sarah looked at the clock alongside the steering column, hearing its steady tick, tock, tick. _The Polka. Chuck. Apple fritters. Poison. Tick, tock, tick. _Again, she pushed the rush of images and feelings away.

Larkin would live but she could not leave him out there for long.

She had left Chuck for too long. She had to get back to him. Tell Ellie.

She got out of the car and closed the door quietly, then started trudging toward The Clown. She felt like a ghost among ghosts, each snowflake a spectral butterfly flitting to the frozen earth.

A kaleidoscope of cold, weightless shards.

* * *

Sarah had killed while she was an agent.

She had never simply taken a life, say, performed a termination, although Joad had increasingly hinted that her path to career advancement lay in that direction. The three times she had killed someone it had been in defense of herself or of someone else, another agent or an asset or a by-stander.

Still, she had killed. The vertigo that comes with taking everything from another person, everything they had been, were, or could be, that was vertigo she had known. She was not sure it was possible ever fully to recover from it, no matter what justificatory story could be told, no matter how true that story was. In the final analysis, you were alive and the person was dead — because of you. You continued and they ended. Causing another person to change from living to dead was not changing a feature of that person's, it was to revoke that person's very personhood.

You made a hole in the world where a person had been.

* * *

She had gotten about halfway to Lombardo's house when she saw a light shine out from beneath the closed garage door. She stopped and stepped near a line of bushes. A moment later, the garage door was lifted up. It was Lombardo.

He quickly got into his car and backed out, then got out and shut the garage door. Sarah, staying near the bushes, got back to the Mustang, back inside it, and crouched down. Lombardo left his driveway, heading away from where Sarah was parked. She left the Mustang's headlights off, and pulled out to follow him.

* * *

_Tick, tock, tick..._

As she tailed Lombardo, she thought again of Algernon.

Algernon. Room 2022.

_When did the rock band trash that room? A while ago. _

Sarah guessed it was two weeks ago. How could Algernon have known about it, unless he had put the band up to it? Possible. But it seemed unlikely. It seemed more likely that Algernon had someone on the inside, a Palmer House employee who could have told him about the room. But who?

Louisa? Robert? Holbert? What about Morgan, Devon, Andy? Casey?

Sarah already suspected Louisa. But Sarah thought she was working for Larkin or the Outfit. Maybe for Shaw.

* * *

Lombardo pulled into a large, empty parking lot. Sarah pulled off the road at a distance from the lot. A moment later a car rolled by her and she ducked. She sat up. The car was familiar. It was Shaw's car.

Shaw parked near Lombardo and got out. Lombardo got out of his car a moment later. He had something in his hands, wrapped in a cloth.

The two men stood talking, their breath visible in the faint light from the one light pole in the lot. Lombardo handed whatever it was he had in his hands to Shaw. Shaw unwrapped it.

A gun.

Sarah knew: the gun that killed Maria Tomek, the gun Chuck fired at Tony Accardo's urging.

The police were about to find the murder weapon, covered in Chuck's prints.

* * *

A/N: The stuff about the 'premier course', also mentioned back in Chapter 1 is, apparently, true, although it took place in 1970, not in the mid-60s. Creepy.

Joseph The Clown Lombardo was a real guy, a mob killer. The details about him are true here, except for the placement of his home.

Thoughts?

(Hey, Mike B., we're good! And, no, I'm _not _kidding you.)


	20. The Tic-Toc Polka

A/N: Hey, folks! My best to you in these troubled days!

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty: The Tic-Toc Polka

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
Chicago, Somewhere on the Northside  
2:07 am

* * *

As she watched Shaw and Lombardo, accordion music wafted into Sarah's mind, auditory imagery, with vocals:

_Tick, tick, tick tock  
__Goes the clock on the wall  
__As we're dancing the evening away  
__Tick, tick, tick tock  
__Goes my heart  
__With the clock beating time  
__While the music is played_…

Chuck.

_Tick, tick, tick tock. _The Mustang's clock.

* * *

Shaw looked at the gun, almost cradling it in his hands, a child swaddled in a pewter baby blanket.

The gun and Chuck's prints on it were no longer at the forefront of Sarah's interest, they had moved into the background: what was salient was the fact that Lombardo _had _the gun. Larkin thought Joey had killed Maria. It looked that way as Sarah watched Shaw re-wrap the gun and continue talking with Joey in the low light, their conversation visible in clouds to Sarah but not audible to her.

Sarah needed a plan. She did not have one; she had a hope, a hope that Lombardo either had Tomek's records or knew where they were. She had assumed that Larkin did not. His answers to her confirmed her suspicion that the Outfit was using him as a drone; Larkin was not really much in the know.

Shaw might be higher on the food chain — in fact, he almost certainly was, since he was a police detective, and those did not come cheap for the mob. But Sarah's gut told her that Shaw was not Tomek's killer, and that Shaw little more than Larkin was likely to be entrusted with the records.

It was Lombardo. He was key.

She scanned around the car, the area. There seemed to be no one in sight but her, Shaw and Lombardo. And Larkin out-of-sight, in the trunk. Shaw tucked the cloth-wrapped gun under his arm. The body language of both men changed. They were finishing, nearly finished.

_Tick, tick, tock, Sarah_. _What now?_

_Chuck's waiting. He could be dying._

Sarah's hands were shaking again, wrapped tight around the cold steering wheel. A car passed her, the parking lot, drove on into the swirling snow, disappeared.

She had become Sarah Spook but it no longer felt familiar. She was not Sarah Spook, Agent Walker, and putting her on was like wedging herself into clothes that were too tight, that cut off circulation — to and from her heart. She had only just discovered Sarah Walker, hotel detective, the girlfriend of Chuck Bartowski, the friend of Carina and Casey and Morgan...and Ellie. A woman with possibilities. She had far less practice being that woman, but Sarah Walker, hotel detective, — that was the woman she wanted to be.

Earlier, in Algernon's car, as she came more and more to see Jeff Barnes as Algernon, Sarah Walker, Detective, became more and more possessed by Agent Walker. A woman with no possibilities. Sarah's dead past claiming her living present. She wanted the living present, her living present, Chuck.

But: later. Now: she was who she had been. Almost. Sort of. Temporarily.

_Please, please let it be temporary._

The Mustang was running still, the engine throbbing quietly. Sarah had cut the headlights when Lombardo turned into the parking lot. Shaw had the gun wrapped and beneath his arm still. If Lombardo had a gun, it was under his coat.

Sarah put her gun, Larkin's gun, in her lap. Unsheathing the combat knife, she put it in the passenger seat beside her. She rolled down her window, letting the cold blow in — snowflakes in the cabin.

She eased the Mustang out of the spot near the curb and pulled into the roadway, crossing the center to give herself a better angle. Then, she increased her speed, wheeled the car into the parking lot. It slid on the snow but then the tired caught, the car shot forward. She turned on the headlights as she did, and heard Larkin roll and thud in the trunk.

"Hey!"

Sarah paid no attention to his muffled protest. She gunned the Mustang, aiming it at the two men who were standing, frozen, staring into her headlights, deer.

Sarah grabbed her gun with her left hand. She was competent with either hand. Shaw dropped the wrapped gun in the snow, reaching beneath his jacket for his own gun.

Lombardo had not moved: he was grinning — grinning — into the headlights.

Shaw, his hand still in his jacket, started to run. Sarah cut the wheel sharply, the rear of the Mustang sliding to her left. She hit him with the rear of the car, and he sprawled into the snow.

Lombardo had calmly put his hand in his jacket as the car slid into Shaw.

He now had his gun out — and pointed through the windshield at Sarah, standing in the Mustang's lights like they were a spotlight. He was still grinning. The Clown.

The Clown with a .44 Magnum.

Sarah ducked.

Lombardo's gun roared.

The windshield shattered and broken glass showered onto Sarah like ice.

She put her gun up and fired in Lombardo's direction, reaching across to the passenger door as she did. Lombardo fired again and foam from the backseat exploded into the air.

Sarah pulled the handle of the passenger door and pushed it open. Lombardo's Magnum roared again; he fired at the passenger door. Sarah took the moment to grab the knife. She rose and twisted in her seat, bringing her body around as she did and hurling the knife, sidearm, at Lombardo.

The knife wedged deep in Lombardo's right shoulder, the shoulder of his gun arm. "Goddamn it," he grunted, his gun arm sagging, his grin becoming a grimace.

Shots rang out from the other side of the car.

Sarah heard them hit the Mustang. _Shaw._

Sarah fired one shot in his direction before ducking down again.

She scrambled out of the passenger door, using it for cover, gathering herself in a crouch behind it, shifting the gun from one hand to the other. She stood suddenly and aimed as she did. Lombardo tried to get his gun up but, knife in his shoulder, he was too slow. She fired and hit him in the left knee.

Bellowing in pain, he crumpled. Sarah ducked again and worked her way toward the rear of the car.

She heard Shaw. "Joey! Joey! Shit, I think my leg is broken."

Sarah stood again, but not to her full height. She located Shaw in the snow, on his back, as if he were making a snow angel. He saw her and raised his gun. Sarah fired and Shaw screamed, the gun flying from his hand and his hand splashing red. "Shit!"

Sarah ducked down again. She ran, crouched, behind the Mustang, then along the driver's side, ignoring Shaw's moaning and cursing as he now cradled his wounded hand She got to the front and peeked around. Lombardo still had his gun in his hand and he fired. The shot grazed Sarah's shoulder and it burnt, a glowing brand pressed to her flesh.

Ignoring the pain, she stood up instead of peeking around. Lombardo did not expect it. Sarah fired again, hitting him in his gun arm. The Magnum fell into the snow.

Sarah wheeled to check on Shaw. He was still cradling his hand. She then noted that his right leg was bent at an impossible angle, broken. She turned back to The Clown.

He too was seated in the snow. Around his knee, the snow had reddened, slushed. Steam rose. He saw Sarah and she saw him glance hungrily at his Magnum.

"Don't. I will kill you."

He obeyed.

Sarah reached him and kicked the Magnum under the Mustang.

Lombardo was eyeing her with rage and hatred. "A mother-fucking _woman_? You've got to be kidding me."

Sarah gave him a frozen smile and put her gun in his face. "Did you kill Maria Tomek?"

"You're _her_," Lombardo said, his eyes widening, "the bitch brunette ghost who attacked the guys at _Mario's_. The one Larkin used to fu…"

Sarah pushed the gun against Lombardo's forehead. "Don't finish that sentence or I will finish you. Yes, I am the bitch brunette. But Larkin never touched me."

Lombardo smirked through his pain and anger. "Figures. Cocksure bastard never could admit that any woman could keep her legs closed when near him. He thinks he's the Moses of the Pink Sea."

Sarah did not respond. "Answer my question, Joey." Sarah reached under her gun arm and grasped the hilt of the combat knife, still deep in Lombardo's shoulder. She twisted it, hard. _Interrogation, the 'premier course'_. She felt bile rise in her throat.

Lombardo grunted, his lips pressed together. "Yeah, yeah, I killed the little dancing whore."

"Do you know where she hid the records, the ones she and Manny Sklar kept?"

Lombardo looked surprised. "Jesus, does _everyone_ want those damn things?"

Sarah twisted the knife again. "Damn. Damn! Okay. Okay." He took a ragged breath. "She let me in. She was expecting someone else, I think, all festive. I put my gun to her head and asked for the records. She told me they weren't there. 'There're at home', that's what she said. I ended her." Lombardo could have been relating a trip to the grocery.

Sarah stood up, stepping back from Lombardo. _Home? _

Lombardo went on, her movement not seeming to register; he was going into shock. "I told Accardo that. I couldn't tell if he understood or not…" Lombardo's eyes glassed over.

Sarah walked to Lombardo's car quickly. She opened it and took out the keys. She picked up the wrapped gun. Lombardo had passed out. Shaw was watching her.

"What the hell are you, lady? No one can do what you just did. Manhandle Joey The Clown."

She ignored him.

And then she thought of Larkin. She got the keys out of the Mustang and opened the trunk. Larkin was staring up at her, unblinking. Unbreathing.

She reached out and put her hand on his throat. No pulse. Either Lombardo's shots or Shaw's had punctured the trunk and punctured Larkin. She did not take the time to try to figure it out.

She closed the trunk on Larkin's unclosed eyes. She wobbled as she stood, almost vomited. After a moment, the cold wind steadied her.

She walked to Shaw's car. He was still watching her. "You're going to leave?"

"Yes. Good luck explaining this, _Detective _Shaw. Leave me out of it or I will find you and finish this. I promise." The word of the Ice Queen.

The promise affected Shaw. He nodded. "But I'll bleed to death out here. You can't just leave me, can't leave me out in the snow."

"I can and I will."

She got in his car. The keys were in the ignition. She started it and pulled out of the lot, leaving the carnage behind her.

She stopped at the first phone booth she found and made an anonymous emergency call. Then she got back in the car. Drove.

She abandoned the car a few blocks from the hotel and she walked, numb, exhausted, trembling in the cold and snow, back toward the Palmer House. Toward Chuck.

Walking in the snow.

* * *

Paris, France.

She had walked in the snow to the cafe where she was supposed to meet her contact. The cold had driven the cafe-goers inside. Sarah sat down at a corner table to wait. She had the package with her.

Sarah did not know what was in the large envelope. Joad had not explained. All she knew was that a woman would approach her, use a particular phrase, and Sarah would give the woman the package.

Sarah's partner on the mission was an agent stationed in Paris, Bonita Feres. Like Sarah, she was an agent with a nickname: Boneyard. She was a small woman with short black hair that capped cruel hazel eyes. She had never had any partner for long but she seemed to be a favorite of Joad's.

In fact, he had been Joad's very favorite until he had recruited Sarah.

Bonita had made it clear that she was unhappy working with Sarah. Their exchanges had been charged with resentment on Bonita's side and they had exchanged hardly a word beyond what the mission required. Sarah was unsure why any back-up was necessary for such a mission but Joad had insisted. Sarah assumed the package must have been important enough to merit the extra agent.

Sarah returned Bonita's dislike but not for any reason connected to Joad. She found the woman disturbing. There was something about her. Part of it was the nickname and the Langley rumors about how she came to have it. But mainly it was the woman herself. She was wholly devoid of warmth. When she looked at Sarah, at anyone, it was with a gaze that might have been appropriate for examining a rock, but not for interacting with a living, sentient being.

Bonita was across the small square, keeping watch from a distance. Sarah sipped her coffee and watched as the snowflakes fell, dancing in the lights of the City of Lights. She heard a woman clear her throat and Sarah turned.

The woman, a girl, really, stood near Sarah's table. Two men, boys, stood behind her. Sarah tingled. This was not how the meet was supposed to go. The young woman licked her lips, nervous. "Winter in Paris is beautiful, but not for the faint of heart." Her English was good but not great, heavily accented. "Yes, a poet must brave the cold." Sarah offered in response. The girl sat down at the table. Sarah retrieved the package from her bag and handed it as unobtrusively as possible to the young woman.

She extended her arm and took the package with a trembling hand. Sarah noticed a small tattoo on the inside of the young woman's wrist. It was a tattoo worn by members of a violent group in the Paris underground, a group dedicated to political terror. Sarah kept herself from reacting to what she had seen.

The woman tucked the package underneath her leather jacket. As the exchange took place, one of the two young men had repositioned himself behind Sarah. The young woman looked up at him then across at Sarah. "You will come with us."

Sarah shook her head. "No, that's not how this plays out. Take the package — and leave." She put command into her words.

The young woman looked back up at the young man, then back across at Sarah. "We are playing by our rules."

Sarah knew she could likely extricate herself from the situation. The young woman and the young man she could still see, a slightly plump, curly-headed blonde, were struggling with their own fear. They had not done this kind of thing before.

The young man behind her seemed to be the one in charge. Sarah decided to go along with it. If she was going to have to extricate herself, it would be better to do it in a less public spot. And Bonita was out there, presumably watching all this.

Sarah let the threesome lead her out of the cafe. They walked along the streets for a distance, each turn taking them onto yet a more narrow street. Finally, they stopped in front of a rundown building, some sort of hotel or hostel.

They climbed the stairs and entered a room. The young man Sarah had not been able to see now took charge, pulling a gun from his pocket. "Sit." He motioned to a chair. Sarah sat.

"Heloise, check the package." The young woman reacted immediately. She tore open the envelope. Inside was a large, a very large sum of money, in francs.

The young man took the stack of money and looked at it. He turned to Sarah. "We want more."

"Peter…" Heloise said, giving him a look.

It was then that Sarah realized that these were, really, children. They were playing at being _provocateurs_, but that was the word, 'playing'. Even the leader, Peter, was unsure, insecure in his part. Sarah was certain that she could talk her way out of this.

She opened her mouth to speak when the room's door opened at the same time. Four heads turned to the door at once. Three spits — and Peter, Heloise, and the curly-headed boy, — all were dead. Three blue holes in three foreheads. Bonita entered the room, blowing the smoke away from the silencer of her pistol.

"Get up, Walker. Gotta go. Mission's done."

Sarah had been too shocked, too appalled, to do anything but get up. Bonita led her away from the room, down the stairs, to the street. They walked a distance and then Bonita stopped.

"Okay, so we are done. All good." Bonita's smile was a smile Sarah wanted to forget as soon as she saw it. The skeletal teeth. _Boneyard. _

"What the hell just happened?"

"The CIA sent a message, that's what. Too many hungry kids thinking that violence is the pathway to change. We're not interested in their changes."

"You...executed them. They were just...children."

Bonita shrugged. "Not my call. I just do the job."

"Why was I necessary? Why use me?"

"Joad's call. I guess he wanted to see how you would...react. I told him beforehand. You're too soft to do this job, the real job. That's what I will put in my report."

Sarah fought back the urge to attack the woman. She turned and walked away, into the snowy night. Sarah wanted to walk away from it all, the corpses of kids, Bonita, Joad, the lies, the compromises. But she was not sure she was strong enough.

It was the only life she'd ever known, even if it was a shadow-life.

* * *

She entered the lobby, bright and warm, the murals floating on the ceiling above her. The lobby was empty, except for Devon, in a chair, and Robert, at the desk.

Devon saw her and got up, crossing to her quickly. She was standing, staring up at the murals, the twenty-four karat, gold-winged, Tiffany candelabras.

"Sarah, Sarah," Devon whispered, "are you okay?" Sarah lowered her eyes to his kind face just in time to see him notice the gash in her coat's shoulder. She had somehow forgotten it, blocked out the pain. Devon moved to obscure Robert's vision of her shoulder. "Come on, let's go to the office."

Sarah walked beside Devon down the hallway and then down the stairs. A moment later, they were in the office. Devon took her hand and led her to his desk chair.

"Sit, I'll see what I can do."

He helped her take off her jacket. The numbness was lifting, the burning noticeable again. Devon put her jacket aside. He looked at her shoulder, rolling up the sleeve of her blouse.

"You were grazed. A bullet?" He gave her a questioning look. She just nodded. "Um...okay. It's not too deep."

He opened a desk drawer and took out a first aid kit. Working quickly, he cleaned and bandaged the wound. Sarah was slowly reoccupying her own body. She shivered.

"I think there's a blanket in the storage room down the hall."

"No, Devon. Take me to Chuck. I need Chuck." She could hear the need in her own voice as well as feel it.

He nodded. "But first, call Ellie. Tell her to come to Chuck's room in a few minutes. Tell her to be careful."

Devon nodded. He picked up the phone and dialed in-house. He waited. "Eleanor? Um, Ellie, this is Devon. Sorry to wake you, but Sarah wants you to go up to Chuck's room. Wait a few minutes, then go up. Be careful no one is watching you. Okay, yes, I will be there too."

Devon hung up the phone. "Done. What now?"

"Let's go up. Keep a lookout, Devon; I'm too tired to be much help." Sarah began to shake all over.

She leaned against Devon and he led her to the elevator.

* * *

"Sarah!" Chuck whispered her name.

He was dressed and seated in a chair when Devon unlocked the door. _Playback _fell out of Chuck's lap as he jumped up — but he did not give it a second look. He crossed the room in two strides and took Sarah in his long arms.

As soon as he did, she began to weep.

"Sarah, Sarah. Shhhh. I've been so worried."

She said nothing, did not try to say anything.

She felt the ghost of Agent Walker leaving her, dispossessing her, as Chuck's embrace warmed her. She let her tears flow.

Chuck held her close, saying nothing more. They stood like that for a long time.

When her sobs stopped, Chuck spoke again. "What's happened to you? Devon, what's going on?"

"I don't know for sure, Chuck. She just walked into the lobby, zombie-like. She had the injury. A bullet grazed her. She hasn't explained it."

Sarah looked up into Chuck's face. "Take me to the bed and hold me and I will tell you all about it. But we need Ellie here too."

A moment later there was a soft knock on the door. Devon checked the peep-hole. "Ellie."

He let her in. She was in her Palmer House robe, belted closed, an empty ice-bucket in her hands. Although it looked as though she had tried to straighten it, her hair was tangled from sleep. She held up the bucket, smirking sleepily. "Camouflage."

She saw Sarah and immediately handed Devon the bucket. "Sarah, what happened?" She checked the wound. "Did you bandage this, Devon?" He nodded. "Good job."

Sarah let Chuck and Ellie lead her to the bed. She kicked off her wet shoes and pulled back the covers. She got in the bed, seated, her legs and feet beneath the blanket. She motioned for Chuck to join her. He did, sitting beside her.

She leaned into him and sat quietly for a moment. Ellie sat down on the end of the bed and Devon sat down in the armchair Chuck, putting the empty ice bucket next to _Playback _on the floor.

Sarah reveled in Chuck's heartbeat against her, thump-thump-thumping. And then it hit her, hard: _Tick, tick, tock._

Ellie and Devon were looking at her, expectant. Chuck was rubbing his hand softly against her back. She wanted to sleep but she had to talk instead.

"I'm going to tell you about what happened to me tonight. About...what I did." She glanced at Chuck, then at her watch. _Tick, tick, tock._

"But before I start, I need to tell you that this room is bugged — by the KGB."

"What?!"

Three voices asked the same question at the same time.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know, the story's darkened in these last chapters as the spy world, and Sarah's difficult memories of it, intrude into the story. The story will not become a dark, angsty tale but it had to have this dark, angsty section, given its structure and themes.

I hope everyone out there reading is healthy and safe. Remember, social distancing, so-called, is a physical, not a _psychological_ necessity. Keep in touch with each other conversationally. Use social media to be (dare I say it?) _social_.

Thoughts? Love to hear from you.


	21. Period, Refractory

A/N: Some _relative_ calm after the storm.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-One: Period, Refractory

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
The Palmer House Hotel, Chicago  
The Wee Hours

* * *

The three questioners all stared at Sarah.

For a second, she felt like the little girl she had been, years ago, conning with her father, always all secrets and lies. Her first response was to fold into herself, say nothing. Her father had encouraged her not to talk, to treat sharing as a weakness.

He certainly rarely talked to her, except to teach her to con, to critique her efforts. He rarely allowed and almost never asked for her to tell him anything, particularly not anything about how she felt.

He wanted, he needed, for her to be inexpressive. He was uncomfortable with her feelings, uncomfortable even acknowledging that she had them — she now knew this was his way of coping with the guilt he felt about what he was doing to her, the guilt he kept hidden behind his own inexpressiveness, and that he actively denied in his overt speech, in his other actions.

The Farm, Joad, had schooled her further; she became an artist of inexpression.

But she felt Chuck's arms go around her, tighten around her, and she saw more than shock in the faces of Ellie and Devon. They were concerned for her, not a mission. For her. For Sarah. She made herself face them, the telling of her story.

"So, let me start at my apartment, mine and Carina's...Someone had broken in this morning, so I went back with her to check on the place, and," she turned her head just enough to glance at Chuck, "so I could get some sleep. Obviously, that didn't work out…"

Devon broke in. "Carina! Did something happen to her?"

Sarah noticed Ellie react to Devon's reaction, Ellie's reaction unnoticed by Ellie herself.

Sarah answered: "No, as far as I know, she's safe. I 'm sure, really, she's safe. At least for now. Maybe you could call her when your shift ends, Devon, check on her?" Sarah added the question with a tinge of guilt.

Devon nodded. Then she saw a circumspect shift in his features, a new awareness of his nodding. He snuck a glance at Ellie, who was still looking at him, pondering. "I will," Devon said, his tone more dutiful, less personal. "I'll call."

"Thanks, Devon, for doing that for me." Sarah steadied herself. "So, the apartment was fine but I had a...worry...while I was there that the Outfit had someone inside the hotel, hunting for Chuck."

"Who?" Chuck asked just before Devon could.

"Louisa. I'm not sure, but I worry that she's being paid to hunt for you. Her financial situation is bad — you must know that, Devon," he nodded, "and, anyway, I worry about her...what she's up to..."

"I was doing corridor sweeps," Devon added, "and I saw her on the fifth floor and then again on the sixth…"

Ellie's eyes narrowed. "Louisa's mounted the ladder, I guess, rung by rung."

"So," Sarah said, resuming her story after a moment of silence, "I told Carina to prop a chair against the apartment door and I left to come back here, but…" Sarah felt reluctance, not just to tell them about Algernon but to have to acknowledge what Algernon had, presumably, done to Chuck.

Chuck leaned down and kissed the side of her head. "It's okay, Sarah."

"No, it's not, Chuck."

"Devon," Sarah said, "I've told Chuck and Ellie something, but not you. Before I came to Chicago, I worked out of Washington, out of Langley…"

Devon's eyes clouded. "Langley — like, Langley, Virginia?"

"Yes."

His eyes cleared and widened. "Camp Peary. You were a spy." As when Sarah had told Ellie, Devon's reaction was not a question. "That makes..._so much sense_."

Sarah was unsure whether that was intended as a compliment or not. She continued. "Yes, I was a CIA agent. For a long time. But I quit. Anyway, I needed you to know that or the rest of this won't...make sense."

Ellie had shifted her attention to Sarah, Ellie's eyes growing anxious. Sarah heard Chuck's intake of breath, felt it against her. She reached across and took his hand.

"As I left the apartment, I was...taken...forced into a car by a man with a gun in my back."

The room went completely silent. "So, I was ordered into the car. Two other men were in it, in the front seat. I had no choice. I got in."

"Sarah…" Fear was in Chuck's voice.

"I'm here, Chuck, it...works out...sort of. — I got into the car and the man who had ordered me inside got in behind me. He was _Jeff Barnes_."

Chuck and Ellie did not react; neither knew Barnes or knew of him. But Devon's jaw dropped like a cartoon character's. "Jeff Barnes? Otis Campbell?"

Chuck reacted to that. "Otis Campell? Like on _Andy Griffith_? I love that show. Barney…?"

Sarah went on. "Yes, Devon, our ne'er-do-well hotel jewel thief..." She let that sink in for Chuck and Ellie, "...is actually the KGB's fabled deep-cover operative, codename _Algernon._"

Ellie's eyes flashed. "Like the altered mouse, the one with surgically-enhanced intelligence? From the story? Charlie Gordon?"

Sarah shrugged. "I haven't read that book. I thought maybe it was because of the poet, Swinburne."

Devon shook his head dramatically. "Wait, stop. Stop. I need to process this. _Jeff Barnes is a top Soviet spy_?"

"Yes, Devon. I know — it floored me too. But, remember the night he tranqed Andy?"

Chuck shook his head. "Andy Griffith?"

"No, Chuck, _bellboy Andy_, the cherubic redheaded kid. Freckles?"

"Oh, yeah, I've seen him on the elevator," Ellie volunteered.

"Opie?" Chuck was still struggling.

"Sort of looks like him, Chuck," Ellie said, her tone part parent, part sibling. "If you stretched Opie and inflated him a bit…"

"We're getting off-topic," Sarah said, stopping the discussion. Her weariness was a weight on her. She needed to finish telling the story, a story she dreaded telling.

Ellie turned from Chuck to Sarah. "Sorry, Sarah."

"So, yes, Jeff Barnes is Algernon. He introduced the two men with him as Nemur and Strauss."

"The doctors from the book. The ones who operated on Charlie." Ellie put her hand on her mouth. "Sorry to interrupt, but that story — my Dad, our Dad," Ellie looked at Chuck, "he gave me that story to read. We talked about it a lot. It made an impression on me. It's a big reason I was going to go into medicine, neurology. I didn't like Nemur and — Go on. Sorry."

"Well, Algernon revealed who he was to me and…"

Chuck let go of Sarah's hand and whispered. "Sarah, you said the room was bugged, so...Isn't Algernon hearing all this?"

"Probably — someone almost certainly is. The room has been bugged for a while, since before I brought you here, Chuck."

Chuck nodded. Then his eyes saucered. "But that means that...they heard...us."

Sarah nodded, looking only at Chuck and not Ellie or Devon. "Yes, it does. I hate that too, Chuck."

He stared off into the distance for a moment. "I'm glad we were quiet."

Sarah nodded. She kissed his red cheek, the heat of his blush still on it.

"Algernon told me that Maria Tomek came to the Palmer House intending to meet him, to give him some records, books, that she and her boyfriend kept. Algernon was going to pay her for the records and help her defect."

Devon shook his head. "Defect? To the Soviet Union. I thought that was a one-way street, running West. Who in their right mind would…" Devon looked around the room. Sarah could see him thinking about the KGB bugs. "Right. Two-way street."

"Maria was murdered — I'll get to that in a minute — before she could meet with Algernon. But Algernon wants the records. He had...heard of me, it turns out, as I had heard of him."

"_You_?" Ellie asked, a flare of suspicion suddenly in her eyes.

"I...had a certain...reputation as a spy myself," Sarah spoke the words reluctantly, knowing them to be a prelude for what was coming, all of it. "He wanted me to find the records for him."

Chuck huffed. "Why would you do that?"

Sarah looked at Chuck, her voice catching, her eyes moistening. "Because he did something to you, Chuck."

Chuck stiffened. "To me? What? Huh? — I admit, I felt weird when I woke up a while ago, all groggy and cottony, but…"

"Sarah..." Ellie said, her expression completely sober, dead serious, her tone flat, a knife's edge. "_What did Algernon do to Chuck_?"

Sarah grabbed Chuck's hand again. "He claims he poisoned Chuck."

Sarah felt Chuck jerk. Ellie looked at Devon, Devon at Ellie, then both turned to Sarah. Ellie stood up and spoke to the air. "_You son-of-a-bitch, Algernon!_"

Devon stood and put his hand on Ellie's shoulder. She looked at him and then sat back down. Chuck remained motionless, expressionless.

"Should we be talking about this where Algernon can hear?" Devon said after Ellie seated herself. He was still standing. After no one answered, he sat down.

"Poison?" Chuck muttered.

"Algernon tranqed Chuck last night — that much is true, I found the tranq dart in Chuck's abdomen when I came back to the hotel after meeting with Algernon. That's why Chuck felt strange when he woke up.

"Algernon claims that the person who tranqed Chuck also dosed him with an experimental KGB poison, one that is virtually undetectable and slow-acting. There's supposed to be an antidote, and Algernon claims to have it.

"He will trade it for Tomek's records. He says that the poison doesn't produce symptoms...until near the end."

"When is that?" Chuck, again, his voice strangled.

"Sixty hours from 10 pm last night, so..._10 am Thursday morning_."

Ellie was very, very pale. She waved her hands. "But there's no way that Algernon could be that _exact_. We can't take the chance that he's off by a few hours. We have to build in a margin…"

"Assuming Algernon isn't lying," Sarah added.

Ellie dropped her hands, whimpered softly, shaking her head.

"Lying?" Chuck asked. He seemed to have gathered himself. He squeezed Sarah's hand.

"We don't have any proof he dosed you. I couldn't find an injection site."

"But perhaps the dose was administered _orally_," Devon noted.

Sarah turned to Ellie, who was staring at her. "Is such a poison possible, Ellie? What do you think?"

Ellie shifted, gave Devon a look. "I'm not a doctor. Who knows what's possible? It sounds hard to believe — but what do you think, Sarah, you're _a part of that world_, you have a better sense than I do of what makes sense in it."

Sarah felt a jolt at Ellie's words. _A part of that world. _"I...I don't know either, but I do know that the CIA has for years been involved in extensive drug experimentation. And the CIA and the KGB are like photonegative versions of each other. That the KGB has been trying to develop such a drug is perfectly plausible. That they have succeeded is less so. I don't know. I…"

Sarah's throat closed on her. The lack of sleep, the exertion, the things she had done: it all pressed down on her. But the primary weight was Chuck — her fear for him. She broke, broke down. "I'm terrified it's true…" she sobbed.

Chuck pulled her to him. "It's okay, Sarah. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I just found you and I don't plan to lose you or let you lose me."

She looked into his eyes and saw bravery. He had pulled himself together. His eyes were clear, completely focused on her, no deflection of self-concern.

"Tell us the rest, Sarah."

She nodded her head and wiped her eyes. "So...Algernon told me about the poison and what he wanted me to do. Find the records, trade them for the antidote. He let me out of the car near here; I came to the room, checked on Chuck and...I went after the records."

"How?" Ellie looked surprised.

"I went after Bryce Larkin." _And now he's dead. _"I went to his apartment and I...got him to tell me that he was working with the Outfit, that he thought Joey Lombardo, Joey The Clown, had killed Maria. That he was part of the attempt to set Chuck up.

"I made him come with me when I left, for fear that he would call Lombardo, alert him that I was coming. I put him in the trunk of his car and went after Lombardo."

Ellie had been hanging on each word. Now her face showed shock. "In this weather, you _put_ him in the trunk." An observation. "You _got_ him to tell you? You _made_ him come with you?" The last two remarks were questions. Ellie leaned forward. "Just what kind of reputation did you have — in the CIA?"

"I was a...very good agent. Efficient. Obedient. Well-trained."

She felt Chuck twist beside her, change his angle of vision on her.

"What does 'efficient' mean for a spy, Sarah?" Ellie's eyes were narrow as she asked.

Chuck took his arm from around Sarah and rubbed her back.

"Tell us the rest, Sarah."

Sarah did not meet Ellie's gaze. "I had to hurry. I drove to the address of Lombardo's house and Lombardo was just leaving. I trailed him back into the city. He was meeting with Shaw, the police detective – a dirty cop — on the Tomek case. Lombardo had a gun," — Sarah gave Chuck a significant glance — "wrapped up, and he was giving it to Shaw. I...I crashed their meeting."

"Crashed?" It was Devon's turn to ask.

Sarah then narrated the events in the parking lot. She kept it brief but did not try to soften it in her own favor. She told it all, including the knife twists in Lombardo, finding Larkin dead in the trunk, leaving Lombardo and Shaw bleeding in the snow. She told them about making the emergency call and walking to the hotel.

The only thing she did not tell them was what Lombardo actually said when she twisted the knife. She told them that Lombardo said Tomek had no answer to Lombardo's question about the records. She added, falsely, that Lombardo said he did not think that Tomek actually knew where Manny Sklar hid them.

Sarah was not going to give Algernon all and only the actual information she had.

Sarah realized that Chuck had stopped rubbing her back. Devon was staring at her, unaware of his unhinged jaw. Ellie's pallor was almost complete, her dark hair and dark eyes standing out from her bloodless skin. Sarah turned slowly to face Chuck.

His head was turned and he was staring off into the distance. His hand still held hers but as if he had forgotten that was true.

_Welcome back into the shadows. _

Devon finally closed his mouth. It took an obvious effort. "_Jackie Frost_," he breathed out, "shit. That's some scary shit."

Ellie had shifted her eyes to the carpet, studying the pattern in it, apparently. She stood and went into the bathroom and shut the door. Devon was rubbing his bad knee, taking his turn at studying the carpet.

"Chuck?" Sarah asked quietly, not sure what question she was asking but desperate for him to look at her again.

He did not answer. She reversed her hand and his so that she was holding his hand. She squeezed it. "Chuck, you saw what I did at _Moe's_. You know I...was CIA. Chuck?" _Please, Chuck, see me, not the Ice Queen._

He turned to her. The brown of his eyes had darkened, and something deep filled his gaze for a moment, deep, and difficult to read.

He twisted to increase the distance between them and Sarah felt her chest tighten; her breath would not come.

She felt her dead past stir, its shadowy hands thrust forward to claim her living present.

And then Chuck's hands, warm, tender, carefully examined the bloody tear in her blouse, the wound beneath it.

"The Clown. He almost killed you. Killed you. Sarah, we've only known each other for a few days, and I don't want to scare you away, but I...I _care_ about you."

_You love me, you're almost sure. _He did not take it back, not that he remembered saying it. The constriction of her chest vanished; she took a full breath.

"Chuck, given the night...I've had, do you really believe that telling me...you care about me...is going to scare me away? I thought what I just told you, everyone, would scare you away. That you would not look at me the same way that you have been — since we met." She dropped her head.

_I am in the shadows for you, Chuck, to save you. My present. I didn't kill Lombardo or Shaw because of you, Chuck. I do not want to _stay _in the shadows._

He put a finger beneath her chin and gently tilted her face up until he was looking into her eyes.

He swallowed before he spoke, his words as soft and deliberate as his hands on her wounded shoulder. "Sarah, the night you've had...the life you've lived...I won't pretend that I get it, not...you know..._from the inside_...the way you do, but I get _you_, I think. I _think_ I _get_ you."

He paused and leaned close to her, his lips near her ear, his voice for her and only her. "I believe in your heart, Sarah Walker; I do." He kissed her softly.

There was a soft sob — Devon. Blinking, Devon stood up, then turned away from Sarah and Chuck.

Sarah wrapped her arms around Chuck, ignoring the burning of her shoulder, and she kissed him hard. She was too exhausted for the kiss to last long, and when her lips parted from Chuck, Ellie was standing by the bed.

Ellie's color had returned, with a vengeance — she was bright red, her eyes burning. She pointed a finger at Sarah and kept pointing it, stabbing.

"So, Sarah, my brother has been poisoned, probably..._maybe_...probably, and there are dead or wounded men all over, staining the streets of Chicago, and my brother doesn't seem to be particularly concerned about it, any of it, that he's dying, or that we have no leads, no clues, and that his new girlfriend caused the dead or wounded men, and got wounded herself, and that she's a former American spy who ends up in cars with Russian spies code-named after surgically-enhanced mice or English poets, and...and…and…" Like a spinning top at the end of its kinetic energy, Ellie began to wobble.

Devon picked up Ellie's hanging conjunction. "And — 'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.'"

Devon smiled calmly as Ellie wheeled toward him.

She stared at him for a moment. "What the hell was that, Devon?" Ellie asked softly, her shoulders now sagging.

"Swinburne, the poet. I had to read him in a class. I memorized that line because it sort of stumped me. I don't get it." Devon gave Ellie then Sarah and Chuck a weak smile. "I liked the beginning and ending alliteration, though. I guess Swinburne was more interested in the sound than the sense."

Ellie walked to the armchair Devon had surrendered.

She sat down heavily, her hands moving, but in no discernable gesture, just an expression of exhausted exasperation.

"Chuck, aren't you afraid? I can't lose you, I can't lose anyone else…If you aren't afraid, well, I'm terrified enough for both of us. Think about it, Chuck, Thursday morning will be _the dawn of the day you die_, unless we find those records…"

Sarah got up and picked up the pad of hotel stationery and a pen. "I know you're upset, Ellie. I am too. And of course, Chuck is scared. We'll just have to do our best."

As she spoke, she wrote in large letters: _The Clown gave me a clue._ She made sure Ellie, Devon, and Chuck saw it. Each nodded in turn.

Ellie mouthed the words, _Thank God._ Her color was closer to normal, no longer pale, no longer burning.

Sarah continued talking. "We'll get started first thing in the morning, trying to figure this out. I've got to get some sleep."

"Okay, but _first thing _tomorrow…" Ellie echoed, her eyes no longer burning but anger and mistrust were still in them. "Devon, would you please help me get back to my room unseen?"

"Sure, Ellie. — Sarah, I will stay after my shift ends. I'll check on Carina and I'll be here to do whatever you need me to do. I can miss my classes tomorrow. I don't have any on Wednesday. After Ellie's settled, I'll check on Louisa's progress up the ladder."

Sarah nodded her thanks. Devon picked up Ellie's ice bucket and went to the door, Ellie behind him. He checked the hall, then opened the door slowly. Ellie's head was down.

Holding the door open narrowly with his foot, Devon extended his hand. After a moment, Ellie noticed it. She took it and they left.

* * *

When the door closed, Chuck got up off the bed and stood beside Sarah. "I'm sorry about Ellie. She's just afraid."

"I am too. Aren't you, Chuck?"

"Yes, kinda..._yes_, sure, but I didn't want Ellie to see it, and...I have you on my side. And you have to rest. And I'm going to keep imagining that this ends well." His voice became a lecturer's. "Like Maxwell Maltz says, 'Imagination — The First Key to Your Success Mechanism.'"

Sarah gave him a look — as much of one as she could muster. "_Psycho-Cybernetics? _Not tonight, but soon, you need to explain to me why you were reading that book."

Chuck's face shifted a bit. "Okay...but not tonight. You're dead on your feet. Come to bed, and let me hold you."

Chuck unbuttoned his shirt, took off his pants. Sarah stripped down to her underwear.

They got in bed together.

Sarah pressed herself against the length of Chuck, craving as much skin-to-skin contact as she could get. As her eyes closed, she kissed Chuck's cheek, sinking into his embrace.

Then she felt herself tremble — or maybe it was Chuck.

Sleep claimed her.

* * *

A/N: We are now poised for the final chapters of the second arc, _This Fevered Spring._

I hope everyone is well and safe. Stay home. Call an old friend. Send some emails. Get out some old photos. Reread Thoreau's _Walden, _the classic of social-distancing.

Thoughts? I would love to hear from you!


	22. Loose Ends

A/N: More story. Hoping to entertain you a little. Be well, be safe, stay home.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Two: Loose Ends

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
The Palmer House, Chicago  
Room 2022

* * *

Sarah stood under the hot water, knowing the risk. It was not high. She and Chuck had heard Edna and Edgar James leaving their room earlier, bickering in the hallway, and Devon told her that no one was currently in 2020.

The shower was worth it.

She closed her eyes and melted into the water, trying to let her mind go limp, just for a moment. But no longer.

The clock was still ticking.

* * *

Sarah woke up to discover Chuck standing by the room's window, the orangy sunlight of the rising sun sliced thin by the barely open blinds, streaks on his naked chest.

He did not know she was awake. He rotated away from the window and toward her. Sarah left her eyes nearly closed. His eyes as he looked at her were dark and deep, as they had been while talking last night — before Ellie and Devon had left. He gazed at her like that for a long time, standing in his boxers, streaked in orange slices, unmoving.

Chuck's reverie — and Sarah's witnessing of it — was cut short by a quick, soft knock on the door. Sarah opened her eyes. Chuck looked at the door then at Sarah. He gave her a smile.

She smiled at him as she jumped up and grabbed the gun from the nightstand. She ran to the door in her underwear and peeked through the peep-hole.

Devon.

"Just a minute, Devon."

Sarah ran to her clothes still piled on the floor and put them on. Chuck had started dressing already. After a moment, Sarah opened the door. Devon stepped inside with a coffee tray in one hand, a coat folded across that arm, a bag in the other hand. He was winded, limping slightly. He handed the tray and bag to Chuck.

"Hey, some coffee and breakfast for you two. Sarah, here's a coat out of Lost-and-Found. You can't wear the one with the bullet hole." She took it and put it on the bed. "Sorry to wake you guys, but I needed to talk to you." He glanced around the room but at nothing in particular. "Should we do it here?"

"Sure, Devon, we don't have much choice."

Sarah crossed to the dresser as she spoke and picked up the stationery she had written on the night before.

She waved it silently at Devon and he nodded in response. He understood what he could not say.

"First, I talked to Carina. She's fine, getting ready for an automat shift this morning. She's going to call someone to come by and fix the door. So, that's one thing.

"Louisa was on the eighth floor when her shift ended. But I heard her talking to Morgan; she told him she would work a double. Of course, with checkouts and so on, she won't be able to move around as much as she did last night, so I don't expect her to make much progress up the floors if that's what she's doing. That's another thing.

"Ellie is doing...better this morning. I stopped by her room on the way up. I had to dodge that FBI guy, Lakoff. He was prowling around her floor, I guess hoping Chuck will show up. And Agent Rizzo is awake — boy, is she ever, and on the _warpath_.

She knows about last night, the parking lot." Devon put his hands up, a gesture not to worry. "There was a blurb in the _Tribune_, the bottom of the first page, not much, no names, no mention of a woman, just that shots were fired in a parking lot, one man dead, two men wounded," he fished in his pocket and handed Sarah a small piece of newspaper neatly torn, "but she must have been on the phone because I heard her talking to Casey as soon as he arrived, and she mentioned Shaw. Not you. So, that's yet another thing, or maybe it's two more, or three. Anyway…." Devon blew out a breath, finished.

"Okay, Devon. Thanks. Look, I need you to do me a favor. Tell Casey I called and that I will be in today. Then ask him to do me a favor. Demand a meeting with Rizzo and Lakoff, both, at…" She looked at the clock by the bed, "in forty minutes. 10 am. Tell him to keep them for at least fifteen minutes. And tell him I know who killed Tomek and will brief him after he's done with Rizzo and Lakoff. I will talk to him after I talk to Ellie."

"Sure, Sarah. Morgan's taken over at the desk; Robert's gone. So, if you need Morgan, he's there. He told me to tell you. Oh, and he sends greetings, Chuck."

Chuck, listening, grinned. "Send mine back. You know, _quietly_."

Devon smirked. "You and Sarah here seem to specialize in quiet." His smirk graduated to a grin. "Okay, off to do what you said. I'll be in the office otherwise. Or with Ellie. — Oh, by the way, 2020 is empty now, so if the Jameses in 2024 leave, you won't have anyone in neighboring rooms..." He waggled his eyebrows and turned to the door.

Sarah shut the door after Devon left. She turned around. Chuck was staring past her, at the door. "He _does_ like her, doesn't he, Sarah? Ellie. It was obvious to me last night. And the way she looked at him, especially when he mentioned Carina, the way Ellie reacted to him the whole time, took his hand as they left. I'm not sure she knows it, yet, but I think she _likes_ him. I hope so. She's tried to fix me up but since Aidan died, she hasn't dated, hasn't even acknowledged that she is interested in men, any man."

Sarah gave Chuck a teasing smile, putting the newspaper clipping Devon brought on the dresser. "And how did all this fixing up go for you?" She crossed to him, standing a couple of steps away, waiting for an answer, one eyebrow up, perched to fall.

"Um, not so well. Or, actually, just right, like Goldilocks. Turns out I was available until I met a certain bespectacled brunette at a diner in Chicago."

"Oh, really, Goldilocks? And you aren't available now?"

"Nope. Off the market. And I don't care if the entire damn Kremlin knows it. Brezhnev himself!"

Sarah almost skipped to him and kissed his lips. "You're wonderful." She kissed him several more times, counting out loud: "один, два, три…"

Chuck stared at her in wonder. "You speak Russian?"

She winked at him and kissed him once more without counting. "And who called me 'Lara'? Other than the poetic cabbie?"

"Poetic cabbie? Who was this cabbie?" Chuck asked, tightening his arms around her.

Sarah extricated herself from his embrace, laughing softly, despite the protest from her shoulder. She stopped when she heard Edna and Edgar arguing in the hallway. After a moment, their voices trailed away, toward the elevator. "Just a man who doesn't think all beauty is skin deep."

Chuck laughed softly. "He's right." Chuck caught her eyes. "There are exceptions."

Sarah warmed all over, thrilled by Chuck's words. "I'm going to get a shower while I can."

Chuck straightened a bit, his smile left him. "Right, I'm on the clock."

"We both are, Chuck." Sarah stepped to him and kissed him once more, soberly, before going to shower.

* * *

Sarah checked her watch, pushing back the sleeve of the coat Devon brought her. 10:04 am. She was standing outside the US Grant Suite, listening. She heard nothing from inside, so she used her skeleton key to get in. She closed the door. Moving quickly, surely, she crossed to the desk.

She had the bag Devon had brought to the room in her hand. She put it on the desk.

The Xeroxed letter from Aidan to Maria was not where it had been. Sarah suppressed a curse and picked up a stack of pages. Thumbing through them revealed the letter near the middle of the stack. She separated the stack into two, like a deck of cards, and then picked up the Xerox.

* * *

_Dearest Maria,_

_I can't express how lucky I feel that we've found each other again. I have often wondered about you, always hoping for the best. I feel I owe you so much._

_But you should know, my current circumstances make acknowledging you problematic. I have obscured my past here in Hollywood, and it would not be prudent for me to bring this part of my story to public light. Not right now. _

_And it is not just my job, it is also my wife, Ellie. I need time to prepare her for this story, to make sure she understands what happened and why. I will tell her but not right now. Dark figures like those in our past come into my life and are making demands. _

_I have enclosed a money order to help you. It is much more than you asked for. Still, I wish I could do more than give you money. _

_I am planning to put you into my will, just in case. I have made a ridiculous amount of money, and Ellie will understand why I want you to have half of it._

_I often think of our time together. I know you will be happy when I tell you that I have found the first home here, with Ellie, that I have known since our home together._

_Love,_

_Aidan_

* * *

Sarah put the letter on top of one stack of papers, where it had been, and then put the other stack on top of it. She stood for a moment, thinking.

Picking up her bag, she went into Lakoff's bedroom.

His suitcase was on a hotel luggage rack. Sarah put the bag down beside the rack. The suitcase was locked but Sarah had her bobby pins and made short work of it. Inside were clothes, a Dopp kit. Nothing seemed of interest until she checked the bottom. She recognized CIA handiwork, a false bottom. She had one of the same sort in suitcases she had carried on missions. She felt for the hidden latch and found it.

Beneath the false bottom was an array of gadgets, all CIA-issue: a miniature camera, two mics, two earbuds, two listening devices, two hand-administered tranqs. All the items were clipped in place. None looked used.

Lakoff was working for the CIA. He was a double-agent, a Bureau-Agency double-agent, FBI, but working for the CIA. _Strange._ Sarah secured the false bottom back in place.

She rearranged the clothes, shut the suitcase and relocked it.

She hurried out of the room, making sure she picked up her paper bag.

* * *

Sarah went down to the basement by the steps. She was hurrying now. She would not be able to assume Rizzo or Lakoff's location soon. She made it out of the hotel.

She walked quickly down the street until she found what she wanted. A city garbage truck. The men were ahead of it, gathering cans. No one was watching. Sarah passed by the back and threw the paper bag deep inside it. In the bag was the gun Lombardo gave Shaw, still wrapped in the cloth. It had been in the pocket of Sarah's damaged coat until just before she left 2022.

She sighed in relief and walked on, not stopping until she found a phone booth a couple of blocks away.

* * *

She put the phone to her ear and dropped in her dime. She dialed the number.

"Drab Olive Drab. Marlena. How may I help you?"

"Marlena, it's Sarah."

"Oh, hello, Sarah. Are you still enjoying your boyfriend?"

"Actually, that's why I am calling. I know we've not been close, Marlena, and that's been mostly my fault. I know you are straight now, not conning anymore, but, if I need a place to hide him, my boyfriend, could I bring him to you? Would you help me?"

Silence. "Yes, I would. Have no fear. I may be 'straight', as you say, but most of my friends are crooked. If you need me, just go to the back door of the shop and knock."

"Thanks, Marlena."

"Don't mention it. But don't forget to pay your tab. Eventually."

* * *

Sarah hung up the phone. She paged through the phone book in the booth, checking to find a name she had remembered.

Then, she deposited another dime. She dialed Ellie's room directly.

"Hello?" Ellie's voice sounded tentative.

"Ellie, it's Sarah. I was going to come to your room, but I decided this was safer. Lakoff, Rizzo's partner, been in your hallway off and on."

"Big guy, little suit?"

"Yes, Ellie, that's him. — Look, two things, no, three, then I need to get back to Chuck. First, about last night," Sarah took a moment to gather herself, "I understand your being angry with me, suspicious of me. My past, coupled with what I told you last night, must make me seem...monstrous. Dark. I understand if you don't think I'm right for your brother…"

Sarah heard Ellie inhale, exhale. "Sarah, I don't decide who is right for Chuck, he does. And I realized this morning that I was really mostly angry at this whole mess, not at you. You've gotten pulled into it too because you love my brother."

Sarah was silent but her heart started to hammer.

"None of us chose this," Ellie continued, taking what she said to be incontrovertible, "you chose against the life you've been pulled back into. Devon talked to me this morning. He told me about how much he's learned from you, how much he admires you. He even said he fixed you up with his brother, but that it didn't take. He mentioned...that you double-dated with him and...Carina." The last comment was somewhere between a question and a declaration.

"Yes, Ellie, we all went out once. None of it took, however. I never went out with his brother again and Devon never went out again with Carina."

"But...he wanted to, right?"

"Yes, he did, but, as I told you, Carina's been grieving."

"I remember."

"And I don't think Devon's interested in Carina anymore, not romantically, at any rate."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think he's met someone...new."

"Oh. Oh. Um….Well, I'm sure you didn't call to talk about men."

"No, but that's okay, Ellie. So, you and I, we're okay? I'd like to be...friends. I'd like that a lot."

"Yes...me too, just give me some time to get used to the idea of Chuck's girlfriend — and my friend — in gangland shootouts and shadowy meetings with Russian spies…"

"Fair enough. — Second, I was able to get a look at that letter from Aidan to Maria this morning. I snuck into the FBI's room."

"Was it a love letter, Sarah?"

"No, I don't think so. Clearly, Aidan knew Maria. In the past. He told her how happy he was with you." Sarah heard Ellie sigh. "He sent her money and he told her he was going to change his will, leaving her half his estate. Did you know anything about that?"

"No, nothing. There was nothing like that in the will..."

"Huh. I suspect Rizzo is treating the line about the will as a motive. It's flimsy but combined with the other evidence, I can see how Rizzo would think it potentially damning. — Have you thought any more about whether you've ever seen Maria?"

"I have — thought about it. I still don't know where it would have been."

Sarah pondered the question for a moment, then she went on. "Ok, it may still come to you. — Third, do you think that you and Devon could go to Mercy Hospital and talk to the toxicologist there? I remember hearing him lecture once. You could tell him some story, tell him about the sort of poison Algernon described, see if it's possible. Could you do that?"

Ellie was quiet for a moment. "Like a spy mission? Devon as my...partner."

"Yes, but I don't want to pull you in…"

"No, no, that's fine, Sarah. I would feel better all-around if I could just _do_ something. I feel so powerless. I'll call Devon and we'll go."

"Great." She told Ellie the doctor's name. "I'm going to head back to Chuck now. We have things we need to do."

Ellie cleared her throat. Sarah blushed. "Thanks, Ellie."

* * *

Sarah was about to enter the Palmer House lobby, to find Casey, when she heard her name.

"Walker!" It was Agent Rizzo, Zondra. She was standing off to the opposite side of the entrance. She had a cigarette in her hand. Sarah crossed in front of the revolving doors to meet her.

Zondra took another hard, quick puff on her cigarette then ground the butt out on the sidewalk. Sarah watched. "I didn't know you were a smoker."

"Only when slow suicide prevents immediate homicide."

"Homicide?"

"My partner, Lakoff, he's driving me up the wall. I'm going to kill him."

"How so?"

"It doesn't matter. I just hope never to work with him again. But that's not the reason I wanted to talk to you. Casey told me you would be in." Zondra paused, becoming uncomfortable. "I...I wanted to tell you that I'm...um, you know, sorry...for _some_ of what I said to you the other day. It was...out of line. The whole...CIA prostitute...thing."

Sarah nodded but said nothing. She waited, leaving Zondra marooned in discomfort. Zondra shifted her weight from one foot to the other. A long moment passed. Zondra stepped on her cigarette butt again, although it was extinguished. "Did you by any chance know that my father worked for the Company?"

_Yes. _Sarah shook her head, _no_.

"Well, he did. And, well, I haven't talked to him in...years. Not since he left my mom."

"Left her?" Sarah asked softly.

"Yes, he had been on a deep-cover mission, some woman was his...asset, and he ended up sleeping with her. It nearly got him fired. Mom found out and was broken-hearted. Dad eventually left her for that woman. I haven't spoken to him since.

"I was...taking out some personal shit on you, and that wasn't right. I just don't have a very high opinion of...spooks. Too many that I've known, my dad first, have thought they could excuse any misbehavior by citing the job. But that's _bullshit_. Misbehavior is misbehavior, greater good be damned."

Sarah nodded, her gesture true. "Actually, Zondra, I agree. It's why I left. And, apology accepted. We've all got..._baggage_."

They stood in awkward silence, the wind blowing hard between them and whipping along the street.

Zondra looked at Sarah. "Are you still skeptical about Bartowski as Tomek's killer."

"More skeptical than ever. Did you see the piece in the paper this morning, the _Tribune_?"

"The gunplay in the parking lot? Shaw and The Clown shot? That P. I., Larkin, dead?"

Sarah nodded, making sure to repress the tremor that ran through her, the memory of Bryce's lifeless eyes. "Does that all seem coincidental to you?"

"No," Zondra said, her shoulders dropping a little. "But neither of them is telling a story about last night that makes any sense, especially when combined. I assume it was some Outfit on Outfit violence. And it is peculiar that Shaw was there, mixed up in it. I'm almost sure he's dirty. But there seem to be no witnesses to what happened.

"One thing, though. Shaw's car was not at the scene. It was actually not far from here. They're hoping to get prints. The longer this goes on the more sure I become that the Palmer House is at the epicenter of some...event. — But I don't have a clue yet what it is."

Sarah stood still. "Any luck tracking down the records Tomek was supposed to have?"

"No, none. And damn, I want them. But I have people trying to reconstruct her history, all of it. I'm hoping for something." Zondra stopped. She seemed annoyed with herself for saying so much.

Zondra cleared her throat. "Do you have any reason to throw suspicion on Lakoff?"

Sarah gave Zondra a frank look. "If you know something about me, about my Company time, you know I was...good at...what I do...did. Lakoff gives me a bad feeling, and I think you should take my feeling seriously."

"Like trusting someone else's conscience? It doesn't work that way, does it, Company?"

"All I know is that he worries me, and I think he should worry you, Bureau."

Zondra hunted in her purse. She pulled out a pack of Camels. She offered one to Sarah. Sarah took it.

Zondra got one for herself and then put the cigarettes away. She produced a lighter and lit Sarah's cigarette, then her own.

After a puff, she smirked at Sarah. "Didn't know you smoked?"

Sarah blew out a breath, the wind stealing it away. _Tick, tick, tock_. "I don't. I _smoke_ now and then, but I'm not a _smoker_, like I am...irritated now and then, but am not _irritable_."

Zondra laughed silently and considered that as she took another, slower puff. "You know, under different circumstances, we might have been friends."

"But not under these?"

Zondra's eyes glowed with a challenge but a controlled one. "No. Not under these. Behave, Detective Walker."

"You too, Agent Rizzo."

* * *

Sarah wanted to talk to Casey but she had been away from Chuck longer than she wanted. And Agent Rizzo was lurking in the lobby. Sarah decided to return to 2022.

She went to the basement, then took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. She climbed the stairs from there, seeing no one in the stairwell.

She checked the hallway from the landing, through the stairwell door, then she hurried to 2022 and opened the door. As she stepped through, she heard a groan.

Chuck was doubled-up on the bed, rocking. Sarah shut the door and rushed to him, panic seizing her whole being.

"Chuck, Chuck! What's wrong?"

He did not speak. And then she saw a paper bag on the floor, and the final quarter of a Chicago-style hot dog, toppings mountained atop it, on the nightstand.

Chuck finally spoke, a guttural whisper. "I need some...peppermints. My ulcer…"

"Chuck, where did you get that hot dog?"

"Morgan."

Sarah was not sure whether to laugh or cry. After grabbing Chuck a peppermint from the bathroom counter, she sat down on the bed and did both.

* * *

A/N: Bismol, anyone, anyone? Just a teaspoon full?

Things are gradually getting clearer. We are now ready for the final chapters of the second arc, _This Fevered Spring. _


	23. Homeward Bound

A/N: Heading for the end of our second arc. I trust folks are hanging in. This story is a little diversion for you, I hope.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Three: Homeward Bound

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
The Palmer House, Chicago  
Noon

* * *

Beside Sarah, Chuck sighed and sat up, swinging his legs around and planting his feet on the floor. He looked at her, his face apologetic like a little boy's. She got a whiff of mustard and peppermint — and she started sniffling and giggling again. She sounded a touch deranged, even to herself.

Chuck was okay (at the moment), she knew that: but the strain of the last few days, and especially the night before, had coursed out of her as she cried and laughed.

Bryce Larkin was dead. Sarah had not killed him but she had exposed him, put him in harm's way, _that _harm's way. And while she did not like Larkin, she had known him for months, worked with him, gone out with him. And he was dead. He was, in his hapless, self-admiring way, a bad guy, but that did not make him any less dead; it did not give her the power to decide if he lived or died.

And she had dealt out violence, violence in response to violence. Joey The Clown would never walk as he had before she crashed into that parking lot. Shaw's hand might be irreparably damaged, and who knew about his leg? It was a hellish thing to take a life or to feel responsible for one being taken, it was also a hellish thing, to maim another human being. She had her reasons — and the men, including Larkin — would have done the same, or worse, to her had the tables been turned, but still…

Chuck encircled her shoulders with his arm, holding her close. "Larkin?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, and Lombardo and Shaw, all of it."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I got you into an awful mess; it's my fault."

"No, Chuck, it's not. You didn't bug this room or bring the KGB into this. Neither did I. We're just caught in a mess that we had no idea we were in when we met: but we were already in it, despite our ignorance of it."

Chuck grew pensive. "Thrownness…"

"What, Chuck?"

"It's...um...philosophy. Devon quoted Swinburne; I can mention Heidegger."

"Heidegger?"

"A German philosopher. He's still alive. I read him in an Existentialism class at Stanford. He thinks of human life as...um...in a condition of _thrownness_. We just find ourselves here, in the world, a world already structured, shaped by concerns we didn't choose, lined with paths we didn't create, caught up in situations that always outrun our understanding of them...I actually think that class might have brought on my ulcer…"

Chuck gave her a funny smile. "Who knows?"

"Heidegger, huh?"

"Yeah, but, although I guess he's right, I also think it's easy to overstate, to think that because we don't understand everything, we don't understand anything, to think that because the world overmasters us we have no mastery…"

"That's kinda deep for hot dogs, Chuck."

He grinned at her, hearing the echo of their first conversation. "So, hot dogs and Heidegger don't mix?" He chuckled at his question.

Sarah reached over and picked up the remainder of his hot dog and took a bite, shaking her head at Chuck as she chewed. "That's good. Morgan shouldn't have brought it up here, but still…"

Something about Chuck's face struck Sarah. At that moment, still reddened from his ulcer episode, he looked so much like Ellie the night before when she had come storming from the bathroom to litanize Sarah, finger jabbing. "You know, you really look like Ellie right now. I see the resemblance more than ever before."

Chuck continued to smile for a few seconds, then his face went slack, his eyes out-of-focus. "Chuck?"

"That's it, Sarah. I know where I saw Maria Tomek before. I see it now. I _never _saw her before!"

"What are you saying, Chuck?"

"She's his _sister_. She must've dyed her hair, and when I saw her, the blood, the shock of it, the family resemblance escaped me. But that's it, Maria is...was...Aidan's sister."

Sarah felt the tumblers click into place. She had almost had it earlier in the day, reading the letter. Her gut agreed with Chuck. It did not feel surprising once Chuck said it. _Of course, siblings. _

Sarah put the last bite of the hot dog down immediately and put her finger to her lips. They had already given Algernon something Sarah would have liked him not to know.

She flattened her voice, making her reaction to Chuck's insight seem less excited that it was. "That's interesting. We'll have to ask Ellie and see if she agrees."

Chuck understood. "Yeah, I could be wrong. Now that I think about it…"

Sarah decided to turn the discussion another way. "Did you record what you remembered of your conversation with Accardo?" She gestured to the tape player on the other dresser in the room. She nodded her head, to let Chuck know he could just speak.

"Yes, I did. What do you want to do with it?"

"We're going to poke the bear." Sarah stopped, then spoke to the air. "Sorry, Algernon, a figure of speech." She wanted him to know she knew he was listening, someone was listening. She wanted him to worry about anything and everything said in the room, to have to wonder what was spontaneous and what was staged. It might matter later, any shadow of a doubt she could create now.

Chuck went to get the tape player. Sarah recalled the number to Accardo's she found in Larkin's _Moe's _file.

* * *

Keeping conversation at a minimum, they cued the recorder to a particular part of what Chuck recorded, one in which he spoke for a minute before stopping, then Sarah dialed out of the hotel. The number was local.

As Sarah expected, Accardo answered the phone. She immediately began the tape, holding the phone near the speaker. She heard Accardo demand to know who was calling, then heard him fall silent. She let the tape play to the point where Chuck paused, and then she stopped it. She disconnected the phone.

"Now, we let him and the Outfit stew."

Chuck gave her a raised-eyebrow look, not understanding. Sarah winked at him. She grabbed the stationery and wrote a note while asking Chuck about how he felt.

"Fine, now. No more hotdogs for this boy. Can you have someone get me some Pepto, just in case?"

Sarah answered. "Sure, look I sent you sister and Devon on an errand. They should be back soon. I need to run another one myself; I'll pick some up."

She finished writing the note and handed it to Chuck.

_I am going to Accardo's. I need to know what he knows about Maria's records if anything. Be back as soon as I can._

The concern shown on Chuck's face but he nodded. Sarah leaned forward and kissed him, tasting mustard and peppermint and Chuck, and knowing that she tasted of mustard too. He put his arms around her and drew her to him. He kissed her with real hunger and she could feel his desire for her pressed between them. She pushed him back. "Sorry, Chuck, but…"

"No," he said with an understanding smile. "I get it. I've never been much for public displays of, you know, affection, though I admit I normally thought of the public as _seeing_ not _hearing_, and as plain folks, not KGB spies…" He blushed cutely.

"_Affection_, Chuck, is that what this," — she pointed from him to her, her to him — "is?"

His blush deepened. "Affection. Um...Sarah, I...I…" He was stammering fiercely. "I...you see, it's Tuesday, and I met you on Friday, that's just a few days, and, I know, we've, you know...and it's some kind of magic. For me, I mean. I don't know for you. I won't presume but, even though you were being _quiet..._And, anyway, you're _you_ and I'm _me _and I understand if...you know...when this ends, you…decide that…"

"Decide what, Chuck?"

"That this," — he imitated her him-to-her-to him gesture — "was not a good idea, or was a good idea but just a...temporary thing…that when this ends, _this _ends..."

His faith in her last night had buoyed her, allowed her to cope with what had happened. He was still buoying her. "Chuck," she pulled him closer, "do you know how _hard _it's been for me to be quiet, you know, when...we make..._magic_." She put her lips to his ear, close enough that they brushed his ear as she continued in a whisper. "I want to scream and scream and scream — in the _best possible way_. You make me happy, Chuck. You make me real."

She leaned back and what she saw in his eyes made her feel weak, more vulnerable with another person than she ever felt. And then she knew she saw mirrored in his eyes what he was seeing in hers.

_Is this what it is to be in love?_

They stood, each lost in the other's eyes, for a moment, then Sarah reached up and cupped his cheek.

"I'll be back soon. Stay in the room." She grabbed her things quickly and left before she said the words, the words she wanted to say but had never said, never wanted to say. Before.

* * *

Sarah walked into the basement office. Holbert was on the phone, Devon's phone. He hung up after she came in without saying anything.

He shifted in Devon's chair. "When are you coming back to regular work? Not that I'm complaining about the extra hours, but…"

"Soon, Holbert, I hope. Anything going on I need to know about?"

"No. All's quiet. I just got back from lunch. Called the little woman. Guess I should get back to the lobby. Do you know how much longer the FBI will be here? I talked to the guy, Agent Lakoff, he says they don't have any clue where this Bartowski fellow's gone to, hiding."

Sarah had an idea. "Say, Holbert. I need to run an errand. It will likely take a couple of hours. Any chance I could borrow your car?" Holbert drove a white Ford Fairlane, an older one.

He looked surprised. "My car? Is it hotel business?"

Sarah nodded. "And I'll see that Casey fills the tank for you."

Holbert considered it for a second. "Okay." He put his hand in his jacket pocket and produced the keys. He tossed them to Sarah. She caught them deftly, but grunted silently as she did. Her shoulder was not happy about it.

"Thanks, Holbert. I'll be back before your shift ends."

The sense of the clock, winding down, was back upon her. In 2022, with Chuck, she could almost forget it. But now she could hear the steady countdown, the tick, tick, tock, counting down in rhythm with her footfalls as she walked to Holbert's car.

She tried to keep herself focused. What she was about to do could go wrong in so many ways. Accardo was a deadly man.

A deadly man. And she would not have surprise on her side, as she had last night in the parking lot.

* * *

Sarah drove the car, pondering. The roadway was slick, treacherous. The snow of the previous days, gone that morning, had become chill sleet as it returned in the early afternoon. Holbert's wiper blades were dry-rotting, only half effective. Sarah had to strain to see through the watery windshield.

Lombardo claimed Maria said the records were at home. She had come to Chicago, presumably without them, but knowing where they were. Sarah had the feeling that Maria, at that moment, before Lombardo killed her, had meant by 'home' what Aidan had meant by it in the letter. Not just a place she lived, like the apartment she must have had in Chicago, but someplace special. Not _a home. _Home. That special place that Sarah had never had, never known.

But, maybe, with Chuck…

A home. My home. Our home. Someday…

She shook her head and wiped at the windshield with her hand. Not only were Holbert's wiper blades problematic, but the Fairlane's heating system was also weak, ineffectual. Fog obscured the windshield from the inside, sleet from the outside.

Home.

The question was where that home was. Maria's. Aidan's.

They must have been together at some point. Ellie said that Aidan had been an orphan. If he was, and if Maria was his sister, then she was one too. If he was in foster homes, she likely was. Maybe they had been together in one, or maybe they had lived with their parents for a time. There had been someplace special to them both. That was where the records were.

The question was whether Accardo had figured that out or not.

Did he know where that was? If so, he might already have the records. But if not, he might be in roughly the same position as Sarah, trying to figure it out.

Agent Rizzo did not know the answer, but her digging into Maria's past might unearth the answer. Still, Agent Rizzo would not know it as the answer. Sarah had one part of the puzzle, and Agent Rizzo might soon have the other, maybe she already had it.

Sarah had thought about calling her analyst friend at the CIA, but Algernon — and Lakoff — had spooked her. _No pun intended. Chuck is rubbing off on me. Or Casey. _She was not in a hurry to do anything that might alert the CIA, the spy world, to her part in all of this. As far as she could tell, unlike Algernon, Lakoff had no particular interest in her, in Sarah. Or, he had shown none, anyway. — But why was he there, teamed with Agent Rizzo, and spying on his partner? The answer seemed to be the records. If Algernon wanted them, it made a spy-logic kind of sense that the CIA would too, if only to keep them from the KGB. And maybe that was Lakoff's role. He was there to make sure that if Agent Rizzo found the records, they would not long stay in FBI hands.

* * *

Sarah, the Outfit, the FBI — and the intelligence services of the two world superpowers — all were after Maria Tomek's records.

The records were at home.

— And where was that?

* * *

Like Joseph Lombardo, Tony Accardo lived in a choice but not the choicest of Chicago suburbs.

His house, as Sarah drove by it, was surprisingly modest. Not cheap, by any means, but surely no one not in the know would ever imagine that the Outfit's boss lived there.

About the only thing abnormal about the house was the stone wall that went around it, taller than Sarah, and the gate closed on the driveway. But the gate was not ornate or imposing. It looked more like poorly chosen landscaping than a security system.

But Sarah was certain that looks were deceiving.

On the third pass, Sarah pulled up to the gate. A man came out of a small stone room annexed to the wall, beside the gate. He was huge, more like a moving piece of the wall than a man. He leaned down low to look in the driver's window at Sarah. She rolled the window down.

Sarah spoke in a voice that sounded like the fall of the chill sleet. "Tell Tony I'm here to talk. About a recording, he recently heard, and about some records, he is...interested in."

The man blinked but did not otherwise respond. He stood up and went back into the room. A couple of long moments later, the gate swung open.

Sarah drove the Fairlane inside, blowing out a breath, thinking of Chuck, and of what might be — if all this could be brought to an end, if she and Chuck lived through it.

* * *

A/N: Tune in next time for Chapter Twenty-Four: "The Mobster and the Detective". That chapter will end our second arc.

Thoughts?


	24. The Mobster and the Detective

A/N: This chapter ends our second arc, _This Fevered Spring. _

I hope everyone is staying strong.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Mobster and the Detective

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
Suburban Chicago Home of Tony Accardo  
2:17 pm

* * *

Sarah parked the car and got out, the sleet still falling. The sky had darkened overhead and the temperature, rising slowly in through the morning, seemed to be falling quickly. Two men, each almost as large as the bridge troll who had let Sarah through the gate, walked toward her.

One motioned her toward the door, between them. Sarah nodded once and took her place. The three of them walked to the door. Sleet speckled her glasses and face.

They stopped at the door and the other man ran his hands down Sarah's coat, patting her down. She had left her gun in the glove compartment of Holbert's Fairlane.

She knew she would never get it inside. Her best chance was to minimize herself as a threat. She submitted to the pat-down. The man finished and grunted at the other man. The other man opened the door. Sarah stepped inside.

The room was dark; no lights shone.

The house smelled like Sarah's apartment had when she had gone home Friday evening to find Carina cooking. The scent of tomato sauce, spicy, hung in the air. Sarah's stomach growled. She had not eaten much in the past few days — mostly halves of things, donuts, hot dogs.

The man who opened the door grinned when he heard her stomach. "Boss was having a late lunch." He had a voice like a dump truck dumping gravel.

The other man walked ahead of them and Sarah followed. The house seemed larger inside than it had from the outside. They left the front room and entered another, the living room. They crossed through it, under the dark grey skylight that offered limited, chilly illumination. The man in front opened a door and they stepped into a brightly lit dining room.

Food in profusion covered the large tabletop. Salads, bread, a massive pan of cannoli. There was also a heavy bowl of pasta and a deep bowl of tomato sauce.

No one was seated at the table except Tony Accardo, in a chair at the table's head. He had a plate in front of him, streaked with tomato sauce, and he was holding a slice of buttered bread in his hand, a fleshy, balding man. He looked at Sarah with stony-hearted eyes and motioned for her to sit at his left hand.

The two men took up positions side-by-side at the foot of the table.

He took a bite of the bread and chewed it slowly while observing Sarah. She felt more like one of the dishes on the table than a person invited to sit at it. In the long silence, Sarah heard a grandfather clock in some nearby room, its resonate tick, tick, tock. She met Accardo's eyes, carefully keeping hers as neutral as possible.

Accardo wiped the remainder of his bread in the remainder of the tomato sauce on his plate. He ate that and returned to observing Sarah. After a minute or two passed, marked by the ticking clock, he pushed himself back from the table and picked up the linen napkin on his lap. He wiped his mouth. He put the napkin down.

He looked at the two men at the other end of the table and nodded. One left. The one who remained was the one who grinned at Sarah's stomach-growl.

"So…" Accardo began, playing the word out, "...you want to talk to me about...recordings and records?"

"Yes."

Accardo motioned to the other man. He walked around the table, picked up the pan of cannoli, and held it while Accardo chose one for himself.

Accardo put the cannoli on his plate then looked at Sarah. "Cannoli?"

"No. No, thank you."

Accardo motioned the man away. The man returned the cannoli to its previous place on the table and then lumbered to his at its end.

"I take it you got some connection to Mr. Bartowski and his widowed sister, Mrs. Mills?"

"You might say that I'm here on their behalf."

"_Might I_? Good to know." Accardo picked up the cannoli with his fingers and leaned in, bit into it, the filling oozing out onto his cheeks, some onto his plate, falling amid the red streaks of tomato sauce.

He spoke with his mouth half full, his cheeks dabbed with filling. "You see, _Miss_, I'm eating late today. That's because I've been on the phone all morning with lawyers. — Do you know who I _hate_ more than lawyers?"

He picked up his napkin with one hand, the cannoli was still in the other, and wiped the filling off his face. He dropped the napkin on the table.

"No," Sarah answered simply.

"Squealers. Squawkers. Leaks. Folks with runny mouths, y'know?"

Sarah nodded slowly.

"So...I've been on the goddamn phone all morning with lawyers, and then, when I get a minute to myself, a minute for some logitation, to rub my temples, I get a call with a voice from my recent past, Bartowski's voice, the recording of a conversation I had with that _cream puff_," Accardo smirked at Sarah and waved his cannoli as a prop, "when he and I talked some...business at the Green Mill."

He gave Sarah a flinty stare. "Now, I want you to tell me how that's possible?"

"There's this thing called a _tape recorder_," Sarah offered, her inflection deadpan.

Accardo glared at her. "Very funny. _Very_."

Accardo put the uneaten cannoli on his plate and slowly smashed it with his fingers, then his palm, flattened. He licked the filling off his fingers and palm as he returned his attention to Sarah, his threat unspoken but acted out. He picked up his napkin and wiped his hands, his face.

"'_Here on their behalf_'? I don't like that. See, it sounds like lawyer double-speak. — Why are you here, what are Bartowski and Mills to you?"

"Family." The word was out before Sarah thought it. She heard it as if someone else had said it.

The word jolted Accardo. "What, are you a long-lost sister?"

"No. Let's just say that their welfare matters to me."

He stared at the ruin of the cannoli. Then he shifted his gaze to Sarah. "I care about my _family_ too, Miss..._Walker_."

Sarah controlled her reaction to her name. "So…" she played the word out in imitation of Accardo, "you know who I am?"

"I do — and I don't. I know who you are 'cause Daniel Shaw knows who you are and he told the lawyer I sent him. And Joey the Clown," Accardo looked to the seat at his right hand, empty, "although he didn't know your name, when he woke up at the hospital, in custody, he was crystal, _crystal_ about what you looked like. He told a lawyer of mine too.

"Neither Shaw nor Joey told the police about you, at least not yet. They know better than to squeal unless it's on cue from me. So, I know your name. I know that you did what you did last night, and, even if it was at my expense, I'll admit, what you did was some impressive bulldiker shit. You must've been some phys-ed queen back at school. — Hell, _I_ wouldn't mess with Joey The Clown, and I'm _me_, Tony Accardo."

Accardo's tone had grown angrier as he spoke. "Not to mention, Larkin's aging in wood. You are hell on wheels, lady. _Hell on wheels_. A serious Grand Bouncer. A fucking killer. Under other circumstances, I'd put you on the payroll."

"But not under these?"

"No, not under these. Under these, things are going to be less...pleasant for you."

"Even though I have the recording."

Accardo eyed her face. "Gotta say, babe, you do the frigid map better'n anyone I've ever seen. Hard to read. So, you have the recording. See, see, that's surprising since Larkin had the tape, and since the tape was blank, blank like your face."

Sarah spoke carefully. "Larkin was...the real clown, he did not realize that Bartowski had reset the tape player. The tape could only be heard when it was replayed at a particular speed. Larkin did not know that Bartowski's an electronics whiz, that he built that tape player. — And I took the tape from Larkin, along with a can of 8mm film…"

Accardo's eyes widened. "Is that so? Watched it yet? I have to say, that Mrs. Mills — of course, she _wasn't _Mrs. Mills then, was she?, she's got a south side that would make any man point due north, volunteer a tablespoon of man oil…" He leered at Sarah.

Sarah thought of Accardo and his goons watching the film, of Algernon and his men listening to her and Chuck. Sarah felt herself redden, powerless to stop it.

Accardo saw it. "_There she is_. — Yeah, that Mrs. Mills…" he shook his head, licked his lips. "See, that husband of hers started all this. A skinny kid who came to me years ago. Worked for me for a time, small-time stuff, but the kid had promise. Eventually begged me for some cash, and said he'd work it off. I gave it to him and then he blew town. It wasn't 'til I saw him on the movie screen that I realized where he'd gotten himself to, what he'd become. He_ owed_ me, and folks don't owe me and not make good. I ain't God, forgiving debtors." He crossed himself. "That shit gets sorted in the afterlife. But in this life, I do the sorting. Me, Tony Accardo."

Sarah stared at Accardo. "I take it you settled Mills' debt. The fall on the set, killed him."

Accardo did not look at her. He just shrugged.

"But why set up Bartowski? What did he do to you?"

"Him? Nothing. But his sister told me _no_ and had the gall to send him to bargain for her. I didn't care for that. So, I was going to teach her a lesson."

"Do you think the frame-up would've worked?"

Accardo shrugged again. "It was a last-second thing, Joey's brainstorm. Larkin helped. He was the one who saw Bartowski place the tape recorder. I didn't care if the kid went to prison, I just wanted his sister, and him, to suffer." He chortled softly.

"But she was going to _pay_ you, is going to pay you. Aidan's money."

Accardo banged his fist on the table, making the various pans and bowls jump. "I don't care about the fucking money, _biscuit! _ I care about the principle! _I am who I am_. You don't welch on me, you don't squeal on me, you don't say _no_ to me. Not to me! I run this town. I decide. I say _yes_ or _no_!"

The man at the end of the table took a step back. Accardo's face was tomato-sauce red.

"Now, here's the deal, _biscuit_. You're going to give me that tape, and it had better be the only copy."

Sarah had managed not to jump when Accardo struck the table. She kept herself still. "No, I won't be doing that. We have other business to discuss. Maria Tomek's records."

Accardo was panting, agitated. Dangerous. "You have those, do you?" He was trying to rein himself in but failing. His eyes betrayed him. He did not have the records.

Sarah pressed her felt advantage. "Not with me. Let's say they are...accessible...to me. And, you must know I am not a fool. I wouldn't walk in here without being sure I had a _Get Out of Jail Free_ card. You may monopolize Chicago, Tony, but you do not monopolize me."

Accardo looked stunned. It was obvious no one talked to him that way, especially not in his house, at his table. His hands fisted hard, one of them squeezing his napkin.

He made a show of staring Sarah up and down. "You weigh _what_, a buck ten, a buck twenty, fully dressed?" He glanced at the man at the end of the table. "Mungo here's taken dumps heavier than that. — You got no gun. You got no chance. _And you got no records_. If you had them, this would all be going a different way."

Mungo produced a large gun, seemingly from nowhere, showing tremendous dexterity for such a large man. Accardo nodded at him. " I need to call my gals at the phone company. It's time to bring this whole farce to an end. But first..."

The other man walked back into the dining room. He was holding a gun. Both men now had guns trained on her. There was a knife on the table, next to the bread. She could get to it, maybe even get to Accardo with it, before one of the men shot her.

The margin would be incredibly slim, almost non-existent. Her shoulder was hurting, stiff, trimming the margin still farther. If Accardo moved away from the table, even a little, before she got to him, she would be done.

She raised her hands. _Stay alive. You can't fight when you are dead. _

Accardo relaxed in his chair, all but his hands.

He looked at Mungo and the other man, then back to Sarah, his lips curled into a complacent sneer. He stood, his hands still fisted. "Now, _biscuit_, tell me about this...access."

* * *

Sarah pulled against the ropes that bound her hands, her feet. No luck, no give. Her fingers and toes were already tingling, going numb.

Mungo stood looming over her.

She spat blood.

Accardo had smacked her repeatedly; Sarah had lost count of how many times he hit her.

Then he had ordered Mungo to hit her, punch her. Mungo had, but Sarah was almost certain Mungo pulled the punches. Despite it all, Sarah had told Accardo nothing. She took the beating.

Accardo had checked his watch and told Mungo to take her downstairs.

"Let her think it over." He had then looked at Sarah. "If this starts again, it starts with your clothes coming off."

Mungo and the other man had carried her downstairs, into the basement, and tied her, hands and feet. She was on her side on the rough concrete floor. The room was lit by a single bulb hanging down from a wire, swinging side to side where Mungo had shouldered it as he passed by it. The other man had gone back upstairs.

Sarah spat again.

Mungo looked at her. "Lady, _talk_. Tell Accardo what he wants to know. I don't like hitting women." His face pinched. "Doing _things _to women." Given the situation, the pleading look on his face was incongruous. _He_ was pleading with _her_. "Just talk. Boss wants those records."

Sarah rolled onto her back, or as much as she could, given that her hands were tied behind her.

She let blood trickle out of her mouth, onto her chin, and she softened her eyes. "Have you worked for him for a long time?"

Mungo looked around, and saw that the other man was gone. He looked back at Sarah. He was surprised by her question. "Since I was a teenager. A long, long time."

Sarah trembled and let Mungo see it, then she played a hunch. "Did you know Aidan Mills?"

Mungo grinned at the name — a fan's grin. "Yeah, before he was a _star_. _Vincent_, that's what we called him back then."

"Vincent? Why? Was that his given name?"

Mungo shrugged. "Don't know. Just hate it that he's dead. He was a good actor and getting better all the time. And I _knew_ him." He stood, sighed and shook his head, then turned and walked away, flicking the switch as he closed the door.

The basement instantly filled with blackness, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling blackness. The black blinded Sarah.

Sarah felt the bloody spittle on her chin drip run down to her neck, turning cold on her skin. She turned her head and spat again.

The bleeding would stop soon. She was woozy, bruised and battered, but not seriously hurt.

But they would hurt her, seriously, and soon. She had maybe a few hours before they came back. Other than her captors, no one but Chuck knew where she was. She had told him to stay in the room.

She had miscalculated, seriously miscalculated, too oriented on her possible future to reckon the present clearly. Now that future had gone dark.

_What is in those records?_

It could not just be something about Accardo, the Outfit. She had known that; Algernon's involvement proved it. But what was of interest to Algernon? Did Accardo know the KGB wanted the records? Was the Outfit working with the KGB? In the past, for all their crimes, the mob, mobsters, had always been patriotic.

America was the mob's Land of Opportunity — a different kind of opportunity, but opportunity.

"_If you had them, this would all be going a different way." _— What had Accardo meant by that?

Both Algernon and Accardo seemed to fear what was in those records.

She was furious with herself. All of this had been to save Chuck. What would happen to him now? Maybe Algernon was lying, but maybe not. If not, the antidote was the only sure remedy. And Sarah had to have the records to trade for it.

She was furious with herself. — Who would save Chuck now? _Chuck!_

Furious. All of that made her furious with herself. Her fury was a fever, burning her up, inside out.

And this too: she had not taken her chance to say the words to Chuck.

It would have been so sweet to say them, although they were momentous, frightening. That would, paradoxically but undeniably, have made them all the sweeter. _Sweet._

_Chuck is so sweet_.

She had miscalculated.

_Would Chuck have said them back? I think so. And that would've been sweet too, immeasurably sweet. A woman like me, to be loved by a man like him. _

_So sweet to hear those words._

She had not taken her chance.

She had miscalculated and everything was ruined, like the cannoli on Accardo's plate.

The blackness that filled the room began to seep into her as hopelessness and the cold concrete cooled her fury.

* * *

A/N: And our second arc is a wrap. Chapter Twenty-Five will begin our final arc, _Green Grass Glowing_.

I've been hoping to entertain you during difficult times; I'd sure love to hear something back from you. Feeling a bit isolated myself. Writing is a lonely business.

Thoughts?


	25. Dream and Doubt?

A/N: We begin our third and final arc, _Green Grass Glowing. _

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Five: Dream and Doubt?

* * *

Sarah hurt.

She hurt: her face, her shoulder, her hands, her feet.

Her heart.

At the Farm, the one consistent, insistent lesson, no matter what the class, implicit when not explicit, had been about not forming attachments, not having feelings.

_Feelings get you killed. _

It had been drilled into Sarah, deep into Sarah.

Her father had already done much of the work, her primary and secondary education in detachment, rootlessness, alienation. He had taught her, in word but mostly in deeds, that feelings were for lambs, chumps, saps. Foolmongers like her father and her, con artists — he the conman, she the con-moll — fed off of the fools' feelings — the lambs, the saps. To feel was to _cross over,_ to become one of the dupes.

"Darlin', listen to me: you're either the user or the used. And you don't want to be used. Feelings get you used." _The sum of my father's wisdom._

The Farm changed the terminology, the justifications, but the lesson was the same. Use or be used. Attachments are weaknesses. Feelings are a liability. Spies like her fellow agents and her survived in the shadows by becoming shadows, shadowy. Feelings substantialized a person, attachments added solidity and three-dimensionality. They made a person a person. A spy was not a person and did not live in a world of persons. That was her tertiary education.

A spy was a puppet shadow in a shadow-puppet world, nothing more.

Sarah knew that training, father and Farm, had been part of the reason nothing came to be between her and the other agents she had briefly been involved with. Neither she nor they were willing to be more than shadows — and while shadows could overlap, they could not _touch_.

Chuck had touched her, and in doing so made her aware that she could touch others, had touched others: Carina, Devon, Casey, even Morgan. It was true that her feelings for Chuck had been part of her miscalculation, but she was not going to repent them. She had not been sloppy or negligent; she had been ignorant, and ignorant of her ignorance.

It was that last bit that rankled her: she should have known she still did not understand the chess boards she was playing on — not just at the Palmer House but at Accardo's house.

_What did Chuck call it? — Thrownness. "Situations that outrun our understanding of them."_

She was tied up in Accardo's dark basement while Chuck was slowly dying of Algernon's poison. She wanted to scream in rage and frustration and hurt.

But she could not give up. Her father and the Farm were wrong. Sarah was not meant to be a shadow. She was in the dark, but she was not a shadow. She was a woman in love — and there in the dark, she embraced that fact.

She tried to twist her wrists but only intensified the rope burns around them. The same with her ankles. She could no longer feel her fingers, her toes.

_How long have I been down here? _

She calmed herself. Thought. Three hours, give or take fifteen minutes. _It's probably about 6 pm. Dusk. _ She considered strategies, but she had none. She had gotten a look around, a glance, just before Mungo turned out the light. The room was bare.

No furniture. Nothing on the walls. Empty.

Except for Sarah.

* * *

She started to twist her wrists again, hoping to loosen the ropes despite the firey pain, when she heard a noise from upstairs.

She had heard footsteps, heavy, crossing the floor off and on for the entire time she had been in the dark.

The noise she heard now was less footstep, more thump. Another. Another thump. Thump, thump, thump-thump.

Then, a riot of thumps, a crash. Another. Crash! Thump-thump-thump.

For a second, Sarah thought she was hearing her pulse.

Silence.

More silence.

Creaking floor. Footsteps on the stairs to the basement. Creeping.

And then Sarah knew: Algernon. He must have inferred Sarah was going to visit Accardo. She and Chuck had played the tape, made the call, in 2022. It was not a huge stretch to believe Sarah's 'errand' was a visit to Accardo.

Algernon. Somehow this had all gotten worse. The shadows were not going to let her escape them. Spooks.

She heard the door open, saw a flashlight, then she was staring into its beam. She turned her head. _Rear Window _was one of the few movies she had seen, and the effect of the flashlight was like the effect of Jeff's flashbulb on Thorwald's vision. She was blinded.

And then she felt hands on her, and there was no way for her to fight back, and she smelled peppermint.

_Peppermint. _The hands were gone. The flashlight swept the room, then she heard a click.

The light came on. Chuck was standing in the basement.

* * *

Chuck put his finger to his lips, then crossed to her in two huge, hurried steps. He pulled her up into a seated position, hugging her like crazy. She was too amazed to respond. And then she buried her face in his neck, breathing him in, a deep inhalation of Chuck.

"Sarah," he whispered, "how many men did Accardo have here?"

"Three — as far as I know. One at the gate, two inside."

Chuck leaned back and exhaled. "Okay, then we're probably okay." He spoke softly, but no longer in a whisper.

"Chuck?!"

He was wearing his green trench coat. He slipped his hand into the pocket and produced a combat knife like the one Sarah bought at _Drab Olive Drab. _Sarah stared at it as he cut the rope around her ankles. Chuck moved behind her to cut the rope around her wrists.

A moment later, limping heavily, Devon entered the room. "I think we got them all, Chuck." He looked at Sarah and rushed over to her, kneeling beside her. "Are you okay, Sarah?"

She nodded, still too overcome to manage connected speech. She then realized that Devon had a tranq gun in his hand.

"Chuck, Devon, _how_?" Sarah finally managed to speak.

Chuck moved around beside Devon. Chuck waw kneeling too. "We'll explain later. Tranqing those guys must be what tranqing big game is like. Did you ever see that movie, Devon? _Hatari?" _

Devon looked at Chuck. "Yeah, John Wayne, right, a couple of years ago? C'mon, you two we have to go."

Sarah leaned against Chuck as Devon led them upstairs. Sarah felt a gun in Chuck's jacket, the other pocket, as she leaned against him.

They got to the top of the stair and led Sarah into the dining room.

Accardo was slumped in his chair at the head of the table, a dart wedged in his chest, a half-eaten cannoli against it.

Mungo was face-down in the pan of cannoli; three darts were in his back. Food was strewn everywhere in the room. In the front room, the other man was on the floor, on his back, a gun beside his open hand. He too had been tranqed multiple times. Devon opened the front door and stuck his head out. He spoke to someone.

He pulled his head inside. "It's clear. Chuck, you take Sarah to Holbert's car and drive her back. She says the keys are in it."

_She?_

Chuck led Sarah out of Accardo's house. It was nearly dark outside. The sleet had turned to snow and it fell like shrapnel.

Sarah looked up. Devon was talking to...Ellie.

Ellie was wearing far too little for the public, much less out-of-doors. She had on a miniskirt as short as Bryce's new secretary had worn, all of her long legs exposed, and a top that hugged her closely, outlining the rest of her. She had on high heels.

She had her arms wrapped around herself. She was shivering, but she turned from Devon to Sarah and gave her a big smile. "Thank God, Sarah!"

Devon took off his coat and wrapped it around Ellie. "See you back there, Chuck." Devon and Ellie turned and hurried along the driveway, toward the gate. Sarah saw the gatekeeper, the bridge troll, on his side near the wall, half on the driveway, half off. He was a pin-cushion too.

Chuck tugged gently on Sarah. He walked her to the car and put her in the passenger seat. "Are you sure you're okay?" Sarah nodded.

Chuck shut the door and ran around the front of the Fairlane. He got in and started it up, turning on the lights and the wipers and the heater. He wheeled the car out of the driveway and onto the road.

Sarah recognized Devon's car in front of them. Chuck slipped in behind it and they drove into the whirling snow.

* * *

Sarah reached over and took Chuck's hand. It was warm, solid, substantial. He squeezed her hand. It all seemed dream-like, yet it was real.

Chuck — and Devon and Ellie — had saved her from Accardo.

Chuck took his hand from hers and pulled the gun from his pocket. He handed it to her. "That keeps poking me. — Are you sure you're okay? I was so terrified when we saw the car at Accardo's."

"Chuck, what are you doing here? How did you get here? How? _How?_"

He gave her that boyish look. "Well, remember when the Jameses, 2024, had their fight and you got...sorta mad at me about leaving the room?"

Sarah shook her head, unsure how what Chuck was saying constituted an answer to her questions.

"I told you then I wouldn't save myself at the loss of someone else, particularly, especially not you, Sarah.

"You caught me off-guard with that note, and then you left so quickly, and I couldn't figure out what to say with Algernon listening. But once you left I thought about last night again, the risks you ran for me. And I couldn't let you to do it again while I sat in that buggy room.

"So, I snuck down to Ellie's room. She and Devon had come back from their errand, the doctor visit." Chuck swallowed. "No one saw me. She called Devon; he was still downstairs. He came and snuck me and Ellie out of the Palmer House.

"But I knew that, well, you're you and I'm me, and Devon's great and Ellie, but we couldn't just walk into Accardo's if you were there. So, we went to see the pipe-smoking woman at _Drab Olive Drab. _I told her a little of what's been going on, enough to get her to understand the danger you were in, although Accardo's name seemed to do that on its own.

"Marlena had been in Accardo's house years ago, so she knew the layout. She suggested the tranq guns — stealthy. Non-lethal." Chuck glanced at Sarah and back to the road. "She gave me the knife. Like yours.

"We came up with a plan. Or Ellie did. Marlena had some women's clothes in the back. Ellie found what she wanted and put them on. She figured that Accardo's goons had already...you know, seen her...and that we could use that to get inside. So she put on that postage stamp skirt and that top.

"We got here and drove by. Marlena gave us some binoculars too. They're in Devon's car. But we saw the car, this car. And by then I knew you must have been in there a long time. So we put Ellie's plan into motion. Devon dropped her off and she walked up to the gate. We hid nearby, on the outside. That hulk came to the gate and she let him..._ogle_ her, encouraged him, even.

"She said, 'I think you've seen me before, on 8 mm film…' The guy chuckled at her, staring." Sarah could hear the anger in Chuck's voice. "But Ellie went on, cooing, I guess you'd say. She said she'd come to see if there was _anything_ she could trade for the film.

"The guy unlocked the gate and came back. Devon stepped out and shot him. But he didn't go down. It took two more darts. He collapsed and we went to the door. It wasn't locked. Devon and I got inside, we told Ellie to stay outside, and the next guy came at us. Devon fired once but the guy didn't go down, so Devon tackled him, like football — man, what a tackle! — before he could shoot. I shot him while he wrestled with Devon.

"_You_ did, Chuck?" Sarah said, the whole story sounding dream-like. Sarah shook her head, trying to clear it.

"Remember, I told you my mom used to take me to the range. I can shoot, even if I lost that bottle-shooting contest. And I couldn't miss, Sarah, not when your life was at stake. I didn't. I ran past that guy as Devon disentangled himself from him, and I burst in on Accardo. I shot him. I mean, I guess the guy at the end of the table with the faceful of cannoli was Accardo. I didn't get a good look."

"It was."

"Okay. I tranqed the boss of the Chicago Outfit. There's a line for my resume. So, the last guy lumbers in and I shot him. Once, he kept coming; twice, he kept coming. I shot him once more and he nodded into the cannoli pan."

Sarah gazed at her boyfriend. He had done this. It was real, not a dream. "_You saved me_."

He looked at her. "You're not going to yell at me about leaving the room, are you?"

She snuggled against him, still not sure that she had it all straight, but overjoyed to be alive and with him. She leaned her head on his shoulder. She saw him looking at her in the rearview mirror. Then she saw herself. Her face was bruised, one side, where Mungo punched her, swollen. Her lip was split and there was blood on her chin. Her glasses were gone. Accardo knocked them off with his first slap.

She looked awful. A complete mess.

Chuck's eyes met hers in the mirror as they looked into it. "You're the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

She wiped at her chin and then stretched up to kiss his cheek. She snuggled against him and stopped trying to get it all straight.

"Where are we going, Chuck?"

"Back to _Drab Olive Drab. _Marlena said she can hide me there. She said you already asked."

He glanced at her, his gaze a prayer, thanksgiving. "Thank God, Sarah. Thank God! I don't know what I would have done if I never saw you again."

She nodded with tears in her eyes and thought about the word she said to Accardo: _Family._

She smiled at Chuck through her tears.

And then she heard it — as if Accardo's clock were in the car. Tick, tick, tock.

* * *

Sarah and Chuck and Ellie were in Marlena's apartment. It was above her surplus shop. It looked much as Sarah expected, like the interior of a gypsy wagon.

Marlena was smoking her pipe, standing in her kitchen, waiting for water to boil. She was going to make tea.

Devon had switched cars. He was taking the Fairlane back to Holbert.

Ellie had taken Sarah into the bathroom.

Ellie had helped Sarah wash her rope burns and apply ointment to them, then had checked the bandage on Sarah's shoulder. Sarah had washed her face. Ellie was now checking Sarah's split lip, her bruises, and swelling.

Sarah could see the anger in Ellie's eyes as she worked.

"Bastards. Men hitting women. Bastards! They deserved what they got _and a lot worse_."

Ellie turned to open the bottle of aspirin Marlena had given them. "Ellie, you and Chuck, and Devon. You shouldn't have come. You have no training…"

Ellie turned and gave Sarah a warm smirk. "We got the job done, though, didn't we?"

"But, Ellie, look at you. I never wanted you to dress like that, do what you did, for me."

Ellie's smirk vanished but not its warmth. "I won't say I liked it, particularly...not in front of Devon...but we Bartowskis, we don't give up. Not where people we care about are concerned. Too far isn't far enough."

"How did Devon take all...that?" Sarah gestured at Ellie's very revealing clothes.

"He worked hard to keep his eyes on mine." Ellie grinned. "I'm glad that he did — but I admit...I'm glad it took so much effort too."

She stopped for a second. "But I had to explain. So, in the car, on the way here, I told him about Aidan and the film. All of it"

"What did he say?"

"Nothing, for a minute or two. And then he kissed my cheek softly and told me he was very sorry. He...he held my hand...all the rest of the way."

"You like him, don't you?"

Ellie stood for a moment, unmoving, then she nodded. "Yes, yeah, I guess I do. But that part of my life has seemed so distant for so long, it's hard...feeling my way back into it. It's like foreign terrain."

Sarah blew out a breath, understanding. "Feelings are hard."

Ellie giggled softly. "You said it, sister." Ellie handed Sarah some aspirin, her expression becoming serious again.

"Sarah, those men, they didn't do...anything else to you, did they?"

"No, Ellie, but if you all hadn't shown up…" Sarah took the aspirin and Ellie turned away again to fill a cup with water. She gave it to Sarah and Sarah washed down the aspirin.

They looked at each other for a moment. "Right," Ellie said with a tone of finality. "Well, we did show up."

Sarah reached out and took Ellie's hand. "Ellie, you said that Chuck is the one for me, that I love your brother. How do you know?"

Ellie shrugged. "Do you mean how do I know if you love him, or do you mean how do you know if you love him?"

Sarah looked away, then back. "The latter, I guess."

Ellie started changing back into her clothes. Sarah let go of Ellie's hand and sat down on the closed toilet.

"I guess there are two ways," Ellie said, her tone contemplative. "One is...third-personal. Just think about your behavior around him, what you are willing to do for him, that kind of thing. The other is first-personal; it's about perspective. Does your world sort of...organize...itself around him?"

Ellie raised an eyebrow as she finished. "Is there any doubt, Sarah? Look at you. Not the stereotypical picture of a woman in love but the most convincing I've ever seen. Is there _really_ any doubt?"

Sarah stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She faced Ellie and shook her head.

Ellie smiled with delight — then slipped on her shoes. Her face became serious again.

"Let's go and talk to Chuck and Devon. Devon's probably back by now. I feel like myself again. And I could use that cup of tea. — We need to talk about the visit Devon and I paid to the toxicologist. Chuck refused to listen until we'd found you. We're running out of time."

She opened the bathroom door and they walked out.

Chuck was seated at Marlena's small table. Devon was beside him. Each had a cup of tea.

But both were looking into the kitchen.

Marlena was in the kitchen and she was talking to Sarah's father.

Sarah's father heard Sarah and Ellie come into the room. He gave Sarah, the room, his huge, practiced, chiseler smile.

"There she is! Hey, Darlin'! Have to say, I've seen you looking better."

* * *

A/N: And...the third arc is off and running. The third arc will not be as long as the first two. We are still a distance from finishing but not as far as you might think.

Tune in next time for Chapter Twenty-Six, "Poisoners and Palisades".

Let me say again that I hope folks are staying in and hanging in. My best to you all.

Thoughts?


	26. Poisoners and Palisades

A/N: My best to everyone!

We take a breath before we head into the thick of the final arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Six: Poisoners and Palisades

* * *

Tuesday, November 9, 1965  
Chicago  
_Drab Olive Drab _Surplus_, _upstairs  
8:45 pm

* * *

Sarah froze.

Everyone in the room seemed lit up by Jack Burton's chiseler smile, and all turned toward Sarah at the same time. Marlena smirked around the amber stem of her pipe, Ellie rotated in place, her mouth forming the word 'Dad?', Devon blinked at her, Chuck smiled.

"Daddy?"

* * *

Sarah had seen her father only twice since she joined the CIA.

Her father had left town a few weeks before Sarah's high school graduation — on the run from a man he had conned. Sarah had not been involved, so Jack left Sarah enough money to rent a hotel room to finish the term and to attend her graduation.

Silas Joad had found her there, in the parking lot of the hotel, trying to hotwire a car, a few hours after graduation. He had made her the CIA offer and the next day she was on a plane, the next at the Farm.

During her first year as an agent, when it all began to become too much, she had asked one of the Company analysts, the same one she called on Monday, and the analyst had found Sarah's dad.

Sarah took two personal days and traveled to see him. Boston. The nausea was upon her, low-grade but inescapable. She was not sure what her father could do about it; maybe she knew he could do nothing about it.

But he was all she had, and she needed someone. No other agent she knew could help, would help. She needed someone who cared about her: her, not the Company, the job, the mission. _Her_. That someone was not Jack. He was happy to see her, as he might have been an old buddy, but not interested in what she was doing — absolutely not interested in what she was feeling. As always, he pretended that she had no heart. She fell in with the pretense. It was their old habit.

He never asked about graduation or the time since he had seen her. He assumed that she was on the grift: it never occurred to him that it could be any different. It never occurred to him that she might need him as a father, not as a flimflammer.

She left feeling worse than when she arrived.

He found her the next time, in DC, a few years later, by accident. She was between missions, trying to occupy her mind, and had gone to the Library of Congress to find a quiet spot to read. She had been talking to a librarian. Jack Burton was there, developing a mark. Sarah saw him; he saw Sarah. He went on with the mark.

Jack came back an hour later and took her for coffee. He thought it was a funny family coincidence, them both developing marks at the Library of Congress at the same time. She told him that she was not on the grift; she had a legitimate job. He rolled his eyes. She got up to go to the bathroom and he was gone when she came back, her purse open, all her cash gone, her CIA passbook in a different pocket.

That was the last time she saw Jack Burton, her father.

And now he was standing across the room from her. Smiling that smile she grew up to hate. The smile that meant he was happy to swindle her too.

* * *

"Darlin'!"

Jack crossed the room to look at her more closely. Sarah became all-too-aware of her face, the split lip, the swelling, and all-too-aware of Chuck observing her and Jack. Sarah thought Jack might hug her, unexpected as that would have been, but instead, he put his hand out to touch her chin, to tilt her head so he could see her face better.

"I thought I taught you better...Sarah." His eyes sought hers. He was using the name he must have seen in her CIA passbook. Either that or Marlena had told him her name, the name she had been using all these years, the one Joad gave her.

Jack had never called her that and it threw Sarah off-balance.

"Daddy?"

For a second, Sarah thought she saw real concern in her father's eyes, but then the smile was back. "Marlena tells me you just had a run-in with Big Tony, Tony Accardo?"

"What are you doing here, Dad?" Sarah finally found herself, her voice.

"Marlena found me…" — he turned to Marlena — "...When was it? Sunday night? I was in Detroit. I finished up and came on to the Windy City. Couldn't get here 'til tonight."

Sarah was confused. "Why? — I mean why did you come?"

"Marlena thought you were in trouble. I guess she was right." Jack turned back to Sarah, glancing at Chuck as he did. "So, are you going to introduce me to your...friends?"

Marlena had been watching the reunion closely. "Sarah, Jack got here just a moment before Devon. We haven't done formal introductions…"

Sarah took a breath. "Oh, right. Okay. Everyone, this is my dad, Jack Burton. Dad, this is Ellie Mills, her brother, Chuck Bartowski, and my colleague, Devon Woodcomb."

Jack kept his smile in place and nodded at each person in turn. As he did, Sarah crossed to the small table to stand behind Chuck, her hand on his shoulder. Jack watched, his smile finally dimming. "So, this is the bunch that went into Accardo's to get you?"

Sarah nodded. "They saved me."

Jack pulled a small, ornate chair from its place along one wall and stationed it near the table. "Marlena did not have time to tell me much. Can you explain?"

"I will, Dad. But we have other things we have to talk about first." Sarah looked at Ellie, still standing. "Ellie, what about the visit to the toxicologist?"

Ellie glanced at Devon, then Chuck, then back to Sarah. "So, Devon and I found the doctor you suggested at Mercy, Dr. Hamawaki. He was in the lab and we met him there. We told him Devon was a med student and I was an aspiring novelist, and that we had gotten into an argument about how a mystery novel should go. There was to be a...death by poisoning," Ellie glanced again at Chuck, and Sarah squeezed his shoulder, "and we wanted it to be realistic. But the victim had to...die slowly. Well, you know, Sarah. We told him we couldn't decide if there was a real poison that would do what the plot demanded..."

Devon gazed at Ellie. "She was amazing."

Ellie blushed. "So, Hamawaki listened to us — I made up some more stuff about the novel and the plot — and then he told us we were thinking about it all backward. We were imagining a _fast-acting_ poison that was altered or augmented to slow its effects when what we should have been imagining was a _slow-acting_ poison that had been sped up…"

Jack shook his head. "Poison, plots? I don't..."

Sarah held up her hand, leaving the other on Chuck. "Not now, Dad."

Marlena had walked closer to the table and was smoking intently as she listened, the fragrant smell of her tobacco filling the room.

"I told him I had no idea. Devon said the same. Hamawki grinned at us. Then he said: 'Dimethylmercury.' — It's a slow-acting but lethal poison. I won't go into the technical details, but he suggested that it might be possible to combine it with other...substances to hasten the onset of its effects. Oh, and it would not require an injection or ingestion. It could simply be wiped onto the skin; it would only take a small amount." Ellie paused.

Devon picked up the story. "So we asked about antidotes, cures, and he told us that the only real treatment — at least that he could imagine on the spot — would likely be Dimercaptosuccinic acid, um..._Succimer._ It binds with the poison and carries it out in the urine."

"So how do we get this...Succimer?" Sarah demanded.

Ellie smiled. "We don't. Because Hamawaki gave us some. And I made Chuck take some in the car on the way to Accardo's."

"It's why I needed a peppermint," Chuck added, ducking his head. "That Succimer _sucks._"

"So, Chuck's okay?" Sarah felt giddy.

"No, or, well, we don't know. Remember, this is all guess-work. We aren't sure Chuck was poisoned and we don't know it was Dimethylmercury. And even if it was, we don't know what else the witches' brew might have contained. But at least it's something. Something to do. Some hope, independent of Algernon. Hamawaki — I don't know what he made of us or our story, but it was kind of him to give us the Succimer."

"He's the world's best on poisons. He lectured on the topic at the Farm, years ago. He might be wrong, but no one else is more likely to be right. So, we just keep dosing Chuck?"

"Yes, and he needs to keep peeing…"

"Speaking of," Chuck said standing, brandishing his empty teacup before returning it to the table, "I need to...go…" Sarah stepped back. Chuck turned his head toward her and smiled. She gave him a quick but deep kiss. Chuck brushed her swollen cheek softly with the backs of his fingers, then walked into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Jack watched the whole scene and stared at Sarah. She did not notice the stare until Chuck shut the door. Sarah sat down in Chuck's chair.

Jack shook his head. "So, the tall guy, Chuck, _the monkey_, he's been poisoned? That doesn't sound like Accardo. A gun. A ball bat. Not poison. _A woman's weapon_."

Jack fixed Sarah with the stare again. "And what's with the fade-out, the pucker?"

Sarah did not answer the final question. "Accardo did not poison Chuck, Dad, the KGB did."

Sarah had rarely seen her father flabbergasted. But that did it. "The K...G...B…?" His mouth was open for a moment; he closed it mechanically. "The mob and the KGB?"

Ellie smirked at Jack. "Yeah, and the FBI and the police. When...the monkey...gets into trouble, he goes _big._"

"The FBI? Darlin', this ain't big, it's insane." He made a sweeping gesture, then rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Marlena was now standing behind Jack, her hand on his shoulder in a carbon-copy of Sarah's earlier standing-behind Chuck. "Look, I know Chuck told Marlena some of this. Let me tell you what's been going on. I met Chuck — my boyfriend — at a diner…"

* * *

Chuck had rejoined the group before Sarah finished. He stood beside Ellie as Sarah told the last part, the rescue at Accardo's.

Jack's face was a study in shock and confusion. Sarah stopped talking and the room was silent. Finally, Jack stood up. "So, my little girl _quit _the CIA, became a hotel detective, and now she's caught up in some kind of mixed-up mess with mobsters and spooks and federal agents. Accardo's not going to be happy when he finally wakes up. This...Algernon...sounds like a serious killer...And Agent Rizzo, if she's anything like _her _dad…This is one serious helter-skelter."

Ellie glanced at Sarah. "You know Agent Rizzo's _dad_?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, but she doesn't know I do. Did. I haven't seen him in years. He works for the Company — but our paths never crossed after I joined. Not that unusual for agents, especially when both are deep-cover. We all mostly know of one another by rumor unless we end up on missions together. I never heard much about him."

"So, where are the records, Sarah? Do you have any idea? Why does everyone and his brother want the damn things?" Jack was pacing the floor. Chuck had stepped out of his path.

"I don't know, and I don't know what's in them. All I know is that Maria Tomek told The Clown they were _at home_."

Chuck stopped watching Jack pace and looked at Sarah. "You never told me that."

"No, I didn't want Algernon to hear it."

Chuck nodded. "Right. That's the clue you mentioned?"

Sarah nodded.

Chuck got a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment, he turned to Marlena. "Do you have a phone book?"

Marlena got it, heavy and thick, and handed it to Chuck. Devon got up to stand next to Ellie, and Chuck put the book down and took Devon's chair. He started thumbing through it.

Devon whispered something to Ellie and she whispered back. Sarah missed the content but the emotion was plain. Ellie's smile, so real where Sarah's dad's was so false, was plain.

Marlena had stepped back into the kitchen. She returned with the teapot and filled Chuck's cup again. She patted him on the back. "Drink up." He smiled at her and went back to work. Sarah's heart swelled as the room organized itself around him.

_I am in love with you, Chuck Bartowski. Absolutely._

Jack caught Sarah's eye. "Hey, while he does his bookwork, step outside with me? I want a cigarette."

Sarah nodded. Jack opened the door and Sarah followed, out onto a landing with stairs running down to the alley. The snow had stopped but it was thick on the ground. The wind was cold but not constant. The lights of Chicago burned in the dark.

Sarah hugged herself as her father reached into his shirt pocket for the familiar short pack of Lucky Strikes. As she had seen him do countless times, he licked his lips, wet one end of the unfiltered cigarette with his lips, then, hands cupped, he lit the other end with a match from a hotel matchbook.

He inhaled, held it, exhaled the smoke through his nose.

"So, Jenny, what's the angle? What's the play? This has to be the most convoluted long con in the history of long cons. The payoff must be special if you're willing to risk so much. The Mills girl, she's loaded, right? She looks like money, underplayed but in plenty."

It took Sarah a moment. "You...you think this is all a con? That I am doing all this for Ellie's money?"

Jack nodded as if nothing could be more obvious.

"You are a piece of work, _Jack_," Sarah kept her voice low but she spoke with anger, "only you could have just heard what you heard, saw what you saw, and believed..._that_. You know, you are the dupe, Dad. Human life, real human life, is happening all around you and you either miss it or misunderstand it…"

He stiffened. "Oh, C'mon, Jenny, that...that guy? Hell, he's a shiny penny, bright but practically worthless. He reeks of niceness. But he's strictly a First of May, a sweet pea. There's no way you'd choose a guy like that." He puffed on his cigarette, grinning around it. "Come clean, Darlin'. I see through you."

"No, Dad, you just don't see me. But he does. _I love him_, that sweet pea, that First of May. He's my _lucky penny_. And, don't forget, he and his sister and Devon saved me from Tony Accardo a little while ago. Don't underestimate Chuck, Dad, any of them."

Jack did not respond. He took another hit from his cigarette. "Love? Jenny…"

"Stop calling me that. I'm Sarah now."

"Sarah..._Love_? You know better. Build the palisades and keep 'em built. – Hell, Sarah, I raised you better…"

"No, _Jack_, you raised me worse. But I've managed, somehow, to climb out, mostly anyway, to climb out of the hole you and the damn Company buried me in. That _monkey_ in there makes me feel alive in a way that I only barely remember, the way I think I felt when I was a very little girl, before Mom...And if you do anything to mess this up for me, I will…"

Jack tossed his cigarette off the landing, down into the snow. "Okay, okay. Just think about it. Don't be a sucker. That guy's a long-term guy. Do you think you can settle down? He's a dime novel; read him and toss him. What could he offer you, after all the _adventures_ we had, all that you must've had in the CIA?"

Sarah felt a sudden pity for him. "You know, Dad, trying to live like a real person...and among other real persons...That's an adventure — every day. An adventure you're missing."

Sarah turned and went back inside, leaving her dad on the landing, lighting another Lucky Strike.

* * *

Inside, Chuck was now pacing.

He had the phone book in his hands, carrying it as he paced. When Sarah came in, he smiled at her, eager.

"So, Sarah, I was thinking, Aidan was an orphan. Maria would have been too. She came to Chicago. So, Chicago orphanages. _Homes_. But there are so many…"

Sarah's mind clicked over. "Is there one with _Vincent_ in the name?"

Chuck looked down, flipped a page. "Yes, St. Vincent's."

Sarah smiled at him. "I think we have a next step…"

Marlena cleared her throat, taking her delicate pipe from her mouth. "It's too late to go now, and you wouldn't know where to look. We all need...rest.

"We need to think about sleeping arrangements. Jack can...stay in my room. This is a surplus shop, so I have cots. I can set Devon and Ellie up here. Sarah, you and Chuck I can put downstairs."

Everyone except Marlena seemed self-conscious about the arrangements, blushes ruled the room, but no one objected.

* * *

A few minutes later, Sarah was downstairs beside Chuck, their cots pushed close together. Marlena had turned off the lights.

Chuck's hand found Sarah's. She squeezed him after he squeezed her.

"How are you doing, Chuck?"

"Okay, given...everything. Your dad, he's a...character."

Sarah chuckled, a tincture of bitterness. "Yes, he is. — Chuck, I don't know if the Succimer will work, is working, but I promise you. Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing. I refuse to lose you. And this," she squeezed his hand, "this, _us_, is...open-ended. I don't want it to end."

"Neither do I, Sarah. You make me...better, a better version of me."

Sarah rolled over. She took his hand and pressed it against her chest. "Chuck, I love you."

She knew he could feel her heart thumping. Thump-thump-thumping. He caressed her softly, his thumb tracing a path across her breast that made her gasp softly.

"I love you too, Sarah. From the first."

"Do you think one of these cots will hold us both?"

Chuck wiggled on his. "Seems sturdy."

Sarah climbed over, on top of him, settled against him. She was exhausted, sore, achy, but her desire would not be denied. She needed him. So much.

"One of these days, we'll do this when we don't have to be quiet."

"Promise?" She heard Chuck smile in the dark, somehow.

"I promise, Chuck." Sarah put her lips to his.

* * *

A/N: And now we head into the action of the final arc.

I hope those of you reading this are well and safe. Stay well and well away from others!

Thoughts?


	27. The Dawn of the Day We Die

A/N: We head into the action of our third arc.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Dawn of the Day We Die

* * *

Wednesday, November 10, 1965  
Chicago, _Drab Olive Drab_ Surplus  
8:01 am

* * *

Sarah stretched in her cot like a cat. She had fallen asleep, completely spent, completely satisfied, the night before.

As had been true all along, Chuck could make her forget the bad stuff, even though it involved him.

But after her stretch, the bad stuff began to crowd in around her. Upstairs, she could hear Chuck's voice, Marlena's, her dad's, but she did not try to understand what was being said.

She needed to plan. It was now obvious that her old tingle was on the fritz or just gone. It had gone haywire around Chuck and had proven itself less trustworthy than she had thought. It had deserted her entirely where the visit to Accardo was concerned.

_Why? _The answer came to her as she lay on the cot. Because the tingle was a product of her years with her father, and especially her years in the CIA, her way of trying to prevent being taken by suprise, surprised. She had projected every situation forward in a variety of ways, playing angles, looking for patterns, digging for ulterior motives. She had continued to live her life as if she were an agent, in deep cover, always in a cover, always at risk, exposed. And although she was at risk, exposed now, given all that had happened, she did not _feel_ like an agent anymore. She did not feel unreal.

The loss of the tingle was _a loss _of a kind, but Sarah discovered, as she looked up at the shop's ceiling, that the loss was part of a net _gain_. She might not have the tingle, but she now had something to fight for, to live for. Chuck, Ellie — Devon, and Carina, and her other friends. Her tingle, while she was CIA, belonged to Joad, not to her: it was a precipitate of her training, her bizarre, lonely life. It belonged to Agent Walker, and so ultimately to Joad, as Agent Walker ultimately belonged to Joad. She was what Joad made of Sarah, not what Sarah made of Sarah. As Sarah became her own, came into her own, came to herself over the past days, that vestige of Agent Walker had finally left her.

She had taken Agent Walker up again but she had been able to let her go. That had not been true before. Agent Walker had haunted Sarah's life, Sarah Spook. Casey was right: she had been haunted, haunted by a version of herself she had not been sure was a mere version: she had feared it was her reality, Agent Walker's unreality Sarah's only reality. _Not true._ She knew that now.

Chuck had catalyzed that change. Deepened it and sped it up. The cost of the tingle was the cost of living as Agent Walker, and Sarah was prepared to, had, put off that form of life. She was a new woman, her own, and, in a different sense, Chuck's. The two senses of belonging were not only compatible, but they were also interlocked.

Jack's voice grew louder and Sarah tuned it in. "So, there we were, at the shelter, Christmas Eve, and Jenny, I mean, Sarah, she had all the donation money crammed in her green velvet top…"

Sarah jumped up and jammed herself into her clothes. She climbed the stairs two at a time, barefoot, and burst into Marlena's living quarters.

Chuck was seated at the small table, Jack was too. Ellie was standing by the table, a coffee cup in her hands, dressed. Devon was in his cot, but awake, leaning on his elbow. A cup of coffee was on the end table next to his cot.

Jack was laughing, red-faced. Marlena was in the kitchen, wearing a short robe, smiling and humming, pouring coffee into a decorative serving pot.

Everyone turned as Sarah ran into the room. "Howdy, Darlin'! Just telling some tales out of school."

Sarah speared him with her eyes. "You didn't have any _right_…"

Chuck stood up and walked to her. "Sarah," he said carefully, "your dad's been entertaining me with stories. Well, me first, then the others woke up, joined us. He's been telling tall tales…" Chuck leaned in and winked at her, then kissed her. She kissed him back but glared at Jack over Chuck's shoulder as she did.

Jack's smile slowly left his face. Sarah took Chuck's hand in hers. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Well, if you'll allow me some black humor, and to more or less quote my sister and Swinburne, this morning is the dawn before the dawn of the day I die."

"Chuck," Sarah said, squeezing his hand hard, "that's not funny." She stepped around Chuck, still holding his hand. "And Dad, those stories are mine to tell, this group of people anyway. Stop!"

"Sarah," Chuck urged, his voice still soft.

Ellie interposed herself between Sarah and Jack. She handed Sarah her coffee cup and looked carefully at Sarah's face. "C'mon, Sarah. Your face looks better, not as bruised as I expected. Let me check it in the bathroom where the light's better."

Sarah let go of Chuck's hand and followed Ellie into the bathroom. Ellie pointed to the closed toilet and Sarah sat down. Ellie did look at her face, but just for a minute. She took her coffee cup back from Sarah, dumped its dregs into the sink. She turned on the faucet and washed them down the drain.

"Sarah, don't worry about it. I think, since meeting Jack, we've all kind of known who...and what...he is. And Chuck knew you grew up with Jack. Chuck asked for the stories. He just wants to know you better, Jack too. Bond with your father. You know, guy stuff. — So, don't be angry with Jack. Or with Chuck. Being known yourself is the cost of getting to know others. You know things about me…"

"But Ellie, that was a mistake." Sarah stood up, close to Ellie.

"And what you did with your father wasn't even that, Sarah. You were a girl, a child. You bear no responsibility for any of that…"

"But it went on into my high school years, Ellie. I participated, knowing what I was doing,"

"Extenuating circumstances, still, Sarah. You have legitimate excuses. He's was your dad, you were still dependent on him."

Ellie glanced into the mirror at herself. "Last night, after Marlena turned off the lights, Devon and I, we kissed."

A small smile played on Ellie's face. Sarah grinned into the mirror.

"Just kissed, nothing more, but it was..._nice_. He told me again that he was sorry about what happened to me and sorry about Aidan. I realized that part of the reason I've been holding back, not allowing myself any reaction to men, was that I knew I'd have to tell that story. But I'm glad I told him, Devon, his reaction has made it easier for me to just forgive myself for that...moment. — Sarah, Chuck will do — he's already trying to do — the same for you. Don't make things strange between you because you can't forgive yourself for something he doesn't presume he has to forgive you for…"

"Wow, Ellie, those must have been some kisses, if you got all that out of them."

Ellie bumped Sarah with her hip. "I had to do something to get Devon's mind off the muffled screams from down below."

Sarah blushed. "I thought we were quiet."

Ellie shook her head. "You thought wrong. But I guess it kept you from hearing Jack and Marlena. They thought wrong too."

"What?!"

"Yeah, Devon and I were trying to kiss, just _kiss_, while listening to sex in stereo."

There was a knock at the door. Chuck. "Are you two finished? Succimer and I, we...need the facilities."

Ellie opened the door.

* * *

"So," Sarah said, summing up, "Accardo and his men will almost certainly be looking for us.

"Agents Rizzo and Lakoff are going to be very unhappy that Ellie never came back to the hotel. They will almost certainly think she skipped, found Chuck, maybe ran with him.

They'll be looking too, and so probably the police.

"I have no idea what Algernon will do in response to Chuck vacating 2020. Officially, so to speak, we have until tomorrow morning to get the records to him.

"Devon squared it with Casey, when he returned Holbert's car, that he wouldn't work last night. Holbert pulled a double. Casey told Devon that he was going to use Morgan as a temporary detective, use him to ride the lobby today, and Casey is going to start training Andy at the desk. So, the hotel is covered.

I need to call Casey soon, but first, we need a plan. St. Vincent's will be open to the public in a few minutes. We need to get inside and we need some direction to hunt in…"

Jack spoke. "So, if I understand, you think that Ellie's dead husband — sorry, Ellie — was a ward of St. Vincent's, his sister too? That couldn't have been more than what, fourteen or fifteen years ago?"

Sarah looked at Jack. "Something like that. And?"

"And, the nuns who work in these places typically work there for eternity...Chances are there's still someone around who knew Aidan and his sister. We just need to find that person and get her to talk to us. Make her our fall gal. And if we were wealthy possible-donors?"

"So, you want to _con_ some nuns, Dad?"

"For a good cause, Darlin'. For your boyfriend, the monkey, here."

Jack turned to Ellie. "You've _got _money, right?"

Ellie nodded, self-consciously.

Jack went on. "So, I'm Ellie's lawyer. Devon is her husband." Devon, standing beside Ellie, glanced at her. She looked at the floor. "Chuck's her brother, you're his girlfriend, Sarah. We all go in together. Play it by ear from there.

"And if the con bugs you folks, Ellie can always make an anonymous donation later, to, you know, make up for it. What do you think?"

"Is there any chance someone will recognize Ellie as Aidan's widow," Sarah asked.

Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Jack laughed. "Well, there's a chance. But she can put her hair up, say, and, besides, it's not like the nuns are hiding copies of _Motion Picture Magazine _under their mattresses."

* * *

An hour later the group walked through the heavy wooden doors of St. Vincent's.

Ellie had her hair up, as Jack suggested. Under her arm, she had a beautiful old leather purse. She led the group inside with confident strides, Devon just behind her.

Marlena had supplied them with various items, including the purse and a couple of used wedding rings from a tray of them she had a shop drawer. Ellie and Devon were wearing them. Chuck had on the clothes Sarah had gotten for him on their initial visit to _Drab Olive Drab_, including the shoulder bag. Jack had a suit with him — he always did — and he was wearing it. Sarah had a black sweater and black slacks, with a dressy overcoat, all curtesy of Marlena.

A nun, her round face rounded even more by her neckerchief below her cap and enshrouding veil, smiled at them. She was seated at a small, neat oak desk. "May I help you?"

Jack stepped past Ellie but only after waiting for her gesture of permission.

"Hello, Sister. I am Perry Oldman, Mrs. Koss's attorney." He gave Ellie a formal, deferential nod. "She has become interested in the work you do here and is hoping she could perhaps get a tour of the facility. This is her brother and his girlfriend. We are sorry for not phoning ahead, but Mrs. Koss was supposed to be in a business meeting downtown. It was canceled and she decided to put the unexpected time to _philanthropic_ use."

Jack's voice had transformed. It was rich, sonorous, all dark wood, leather and judges' robes. His posture was ramrod straight. He was Perry Oldman — if there were a Perry Oldman. Sarah shook her head inwardly. Jack was good: she had to give him that. Her infiltration skills had been fashioned more by him than by the Farm.

"Oh," the nun said, standing up quickly, rocking her chair. "Well, that's...um...too bad...about the meeting, but I am sure we can accommodate you. I'm Sister Martha. Um...a tour? Well, I am to be here, at the front desk. Let me see…"

She picked up the beige phone on the desk and dialed, her finger rotating three times. "Sister Mary? We have visitors who would like to take a tour of the orphanage. No, we don't normally do that," Sister Martha's voice grew quiet, "but in this case, I believe we should. God sends the increase, Sister Mary. Yes, it is a Mrs. Koss and her husband, her brother, and sister, and her lawyer, Mr. Oldman."

Sister Martha listened for a moment, then hung up the phone. "Sister Mary is normally in prayer at this hour, but she is going to come and take you on a tour. She will be down in a moment. May I offer you some coffee? We have some in the refectory."

Ellie stepped forward. "No, thank you, Sister Martha. We've had coffee already. — I was wondering about the history of St. Vincent's. Have you served here long?"

Sister Martha nodded. "Yes, a long time, but not nearly as long as Sister Mary. She's been here since B.C. became A.D." Sister Martha gave a sneaky grin, then her features dropped. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Just a little theological joke among we sisters. — I will have to repent of that in Confession."

"So," Ellie said, giving Sister Martha an indulgent smile, "does the orphanage care for both boys and girls?"

"Yes, now. For a while now. Many years ago it was only boys but that changed, I guess about twenty years ago."

"And Sister Mary predates that change?"

"She predates the Flood. — Oh, sorry, again." Sister Martha grinned, then made herself stop.

A door opened off to the side of the lobby and another nun walked in slowly. She was older — but it was impossible to tell how old. Her skin was not particularly wrinkled; her eyes were an intense, alive blue that seemed almost to float in front of her. Sister Martha unconsciously straightened her habit. "This is Sister Mary."

Jack stepped forward again with more or less the same speech he gave Sister Martha. Sister Mary listened for a moment, then smiled slowly. "I hope you do not take my delay in coming to meet you personally. One does not just _walk off_ in the middle of a conversation with the Lord. — Please, if you follow me, I will show you St. Vincent's, though we are poor here, and our facilities modest. All that we have is for the good of the children."

She turned and led them toward the door she had used. She did not seem to walk but to float somehow. Sarah turned to Chuck. He could see it too. She gave him an interrogative look and he just shrugged.

The door led them into a long hallway, the stone floor almost polished from years of feet passing along it. Sister Mary stopped. "This leads into the boys' wing, the Vincents, we call them, as a group."

"And the girls are...the Vincentias?" Chuck asked.

Sister Mary smiled gracefully. "Exactly so. We hope the children come to be proud of St. Vincent's and to see their time here as good, despite the...unfavorable circumstances that brought them to us."

She led them down the hallway. There were many doors, all open. In each room were two or three beds, a matching number of small dressers and desks. The beds were all made, the rooms plain but neat.

"How many children are here, Sister Mary?" Ellie asked, speeding up a little to walk beside the gliding nun.

"At the moment, 56. We hover at or near that number."

Jack spoke up from just behind Ellie and Sister Mary. "Do you sometimes get siblings, brothers and sisters? How do they take to the separate wings?"

Sister Mary slowed but did not stop. "That has perplexed us sisters over the years. We cannot allow the boys and girls to mix, especially not as they enter puberty, but, at the same time, we dislike creating distance between siblings."

Jack hummed in understanding. "Yes, that must be tricky. Especially if the children had time together, were older, before tragedy brought them to you."

"Indeed, " Sister Mary said, nodding. "We have had a few cases like that and they have sometimes been difficult for us. Normally, we have tried to find times and places for the siblings to be together."

"A place?" Ellie said, her tone deliberately light but the question quick.

"Yes, there's a library here," she gestured to the door ahead, "somewhat between the wings, and we have used it for siblings when we needed to, allowing them to spend time together, reading or talking or playing games."

They reached the end of the hallway. Sister Mary took out a ring of keys and opened the old wooden door. "This is the library," Sister Mary said as she led them inside.

They entered. The room was large, walls of books floor-to-ceiling, around a wide and very long central table. Chairs lined the long sides of the table. No light was on but two large windows, the only vertical surfaces not covered in books, let in ample gray from outside. "It is mostly the children who use it. We sisters do not do a lot of secular reading, not that we are opposed to it. We have the Book of Books to frequent."

"This is nice," Sarah said, looking around, not acting a part. She saw Chuck nod in agreement.

Jack turned to Sister Mary. "You know, Sister Martha offered us some coffee and we turned it down, but I could use another cup on this cold morning. Would it be too much to ask...?"

Sister Mary nodded patiently. "No, of course not. Make yourselves comfortable here. I will return with the coffee."

Jack gave her his huge smile. "May I come with you, to, you know, lighten your load?"

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Oldman." They went back the way they had come. When they were about halfway down the hallway, Chuck closed the door partially and turned to Sarah, Ellie, and Devon.

"Okay, I have to say, your dad, Sarah, wow! He's something. — This may not be where Maria hid the records, but it sure seems like it would be the spot."

Sarah nodded, turning and looking at the huge number of books. "But if they are here, _where_?"

They all looked at each other. There were no desks with drawers, no obvious places Maria might have secreted the records.

Chuck rubbed his chin. "Maria must have put them among the other books, hiding them in plain sight, as Edgar Allan Poe did with that letter in 'The Purloined Letter.' But there are so many books. If Maria hid the records here, she must have visited at some point, been allowed to use the library. She'd want the records to be easy for her to find again, unlikely to be found by the children..."

Sarah made herself take a deep breath, let herself relax, her mind open. "Chuck, what was it you told me the first day we met? The movie that Aidan made? Dickens?"

"_Great Expectations,_" Chuck said. Ellie nodded.

Sarah walked to one wall. "Okay, these are alphabetically arranged. A...B…" — she moved along the wall — "C...D…" She stopped and looked up. She turned to Chuck. "Dickens is up there."

Chuck picked up the small library steps that stood near the end of the table and he put them in front of the Ds. He climbed up. "Huh. Yeah, looks like all of Dickens is here, but not in a matched set. Different publishers, different bindings. Let's see..._Great Expectations, Great Expectations..._Wait, here it is. And there are two ledgers here beside it, thin!" He reached up and took them down. Sarah took them from him as he climbed down.

She opened them. She did not know what exactly she was looking at, but she knew she had found them. She had what she needed to save Chuck from Algernon's poison.

She had the records.

* * *

Although it was difficult to do it without fidgeting, they sat and drank coffee with Sister Mary. The records were in Ellie's large leather purse.

When they finished, Sister Mary led them back to the lobby. Sister Martha stood, smiled. "Have you seen enough?"

Ellie gave Sister Martha a fully genuine smile. "This is a fine place, Sisters. I can imagine that the children you care for come to see themselves as lucky to be here."

"We do what we can," Sister Mary said, "but it is hard to keep the doors open. There was a time, fifteen years ago or so, when we closed for a while. All our children had to go elsewhere, to other orphanages or into foster homes. We pray never to have to do that again."

Ellie nodded. "I will be in touch with you soon and we will see what we can do to make sure you don't." Ellie's voice sounded determined.

Sister Mary bowed slightly, her face alight. "You are an answer to prayer, Mrs. Koss, you and your whole family." She gestured to the entire group.

They left the orphanage and stood on the street. Jack looked at Sarah. "You found them?"

Sarah nodded.

Jack frowned. "So, now what?"

* * *

A/N: Hey, hope everyone is keeping their distance. That's the way to express closeness at the moment — if you see what I mean. Stay well.

And stay tuned for more chapters of Hotel Detective. Thoughts?


	28. Gauntlet

A/N: The beginning of the end of Hotel Detective.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gauntlet

* * *

Wednesday, November 10, 1965  
Chicago, Outside _St. Vincent's Orphanage  
_11:30 am

* * *

Sarah looked at Chuck, then at Ellie and Devon, and finally looked back to Jack.

The temperature had dropped further overnight and the late morning had still not shaken it off. Snow was falling half-heartedly.

She had not thought much beyond finding the records, saving Chuck. But now she had them, almost twenty-four hours ahead of Algernon's deadline. _Stupid phrase, Sarah! _

She turned and scanned her surroundings. A diner's sign glowed across the street.

"Let's go and get some lunch and figure our next step."

Jack nodded but Sarah saw consternation in his eyes.

"What, Dad?"

"A good con improvises, but he never just _makes it up as he goes along_."

Sarah glared at him. "I am not a _con_, Dad. I'm not playing an angle, trying to steal a buck. This is about life and death, and, depending on what's in the records, maybe good and evil. Plans are always easier when you have only one value — or none."

Jack stepped back, blinking. "Sorry...Sorry, old habits. Just felt for a minute like old times."

Sarah ignored him. She could see Ellie shivering; Devon carefully put his arm around her, the slowness of the gesture an asking-for-permission. Ellie gave him a smile of thanks.

Sarah turned and started marching toward the diner.

Chuck caught up with her and took her hand. His touch made her shoulders unknot, her brow unfurl. She took a deep breath and smiled at him.

They went inside and found a corner booth. A waitress came and took their orders. After she left, Sarah asked Ellie for the records. Ellie dug them out of the leather purse.

Sarah took them and looked at them closely: two clothbound volumes, tall and thin and dark, dull green. Each had the same design on the front cover — an abstract pattern of black lines, vertical and horizontal, and the word, _Records_, printed in the center of the design, the center of the cover. Two corners of one volume were bent as if it had been dropped.

She opened one.

The pages were ruled both horizontally and vertically, the design familiar for record-keeping or accounts. Entries were made in ink in a small, careful hand, with few errors or markings-out. She turned several pages and they were all similar.

She turned back to the first page. In the first narrow column of the first row was a date, the first date November 21, 1957.

Beside the date, in the next wide column, was a detailed entry that ran down several rows before a new date was entered in the first narrow column of the next row. But the entry was gibberish: no, not gibberish, _a code_. Sarah had studied cryptology at the Farm, used codes and ciphers as an agent.

She stared at the code for a while but could make nothing of it, discerned no pattern.

She realized that everyone else was staring at her, waiting. As she started to explain, the waitress appeared with their food. She distributed it to them. After she left, Sarah told them what was in the records and passed the volume around. It came to Chuck last.

"You know," he said, blowing on a hot spoonful of his chicken noodle soup, "I'm pretty good at this kind of thing. It's a lot like the work I do back home. But I'd need a quiet place to work and a few hours. Whatever that code is, it's a hell of a lot more advanced than Pig Latin."

Jack chortled. "You are an Umpchay, monkey."

Chuck grinned goodnaturedly and took the bite of his soup.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Sarah, look, now that we have these things...I'm not sure I feel right giving them to the Russians. I mean, I don't want to die, assuming I _have_ been poisoned, and that all the Succimer...urination...hasn't saved me.

"But I don't want to give the KGB's top spy something he so obviously wants…That just...bothers me."

Everyone was quiet. Chuck started eating again and so did everyone else.

Eventually, as folks finished, Devon spoke. "I've seen those kinds of record books at the office supply store near the Palmer House. I go there to restock our supplies down in the Detective's room.

"What if we made a copy —maybe I don't mean a copy, but a...decoy, I guess. Decoy records. Maybe we could draw this Algernon out of hiding with them while keeping the real records somewhere safe…"

The door of the diner opened and two uniformed policemen walked in. The waitress had two styrofoam to-go cups lidded and on the counter for them. She gestured to the cups.

"Hey, guys. Got your usual right here."

One policeman stepped to the counter, taking a leather change purse from his pocket to pay. The other stood by the door, rocking on the crepe soles of his black shoes, and glancing around the diner. When his eyes swept their booth, reached Chuck and Sarah, there was a tiny shift in his gaze. He waited for the other policeman to finish paying, and they left together.

Sarah stood up. "Dad, pay for this. We need to go. Out the back door."

She handed the records back to Ellie and Ellie put them in her purse. "Dad, look, we need to split up. That cop recognized Chuck or me or someone. You take Ellie and Devon, keep them safe, the records safe. I'm betting the cops won't follow you. Chuck and I will make sure we're not being followed, and then we will meet you back at Marlena's."

In the alley behind the diner, the group split up, Sarah's dad leading Devon and Ellie away. Chuck stood watching them go.

"It'll be okay, Chuck. I doubt anyone's after them if they're not with us."

"But they were at Accardo's yesterday."

"True, but I think they're down the scorecard for Accardo, and definitely for Agent Rizzo.

"I don't know if those officers were going to report us to the Outfit or the FBI, but I do know he only had eyes for us. C'mon, we've got to go."

They walked in the dirty, slushy snow to the other side of the block. Sarah scrutinized the street then they started along the sidewalk. She started to step out, to hail a taxi, when she saw a patrol car turn the corner.

The driver was the policeman who saw them in the diner.

Sarah grabbed Chuck's arm. "Hurry, Chuck, run!"

They went back through the alley behind the restaurant, back to the street of St. Vincent's. They crossed the street, zigzagging through the slow-moving traffic, and ran alongside the orphanage, crossing the block.

When they emerged on the next street, Sarah checked, then hailed a taxi. She let Chuck get in and then she followed.

Sarah gave the cabbie a streetcorner near Marlena's as a destination. The taxi pulled slowly out into the traffic. She looked behind them, around, and could not see the patrol car. She let herself relax, take a deep breath, and scoot close to Chuck.

"I think we're okay," she whispered, kissing his earlobe.

Chuck squirmed at the touch of her lips, grinning and shrugging his shoulder. "That tickles!"

She laughed but looked behind them again. Still no patrol car. She relaxed, looked back at Chuck. "You know, we've been so...busy...I never asked. How long are you in town?"

Chuck gave her a wicked grin. "I don't have any plans past noon tomorrow."

She took his chin in her hands. "Enough black humor. And start making plans past noon tomorrow."

He gazed at her, vulnerable. "May I...include you in those plans?"

She squeezed his leg. "A good boyfriend would include his girlfriend in his plans…"

"So, _us_, this…" he did the him-to-her-to-him finger dance, "this is open-ended, _real_."

"Real. I don't think Ellie heard me faking last night, Chuck." It was Sarah's turn for a different kind of wicked grin.

"Right. Wait. What? Ellie _heard_?"

"Yes, she did."

Chuck beeted. "I'm not sure which is worse, the KGB or...Ellie."

Sarah bumped Chuck's shoulder with his. "Soon, Chuck, just us, no listeners, no need to be quiet." She paused for a second, feeling vulnerable herself. "What do you think of Chicago?"

He gave her a significant look over a sly grin. "It has some nice hotels."

* * *

The taxi dropped them at the corner.

The snowfall was heavier, the day no warmer. Sarah tugged Chuck's sleeve and they stepped under a shop's awning.

She pulled him into a kiss. "Just in case I wasn't clear in the taxi…" She let herself linger in the kiss, hugging Chuck closer to her as the wind picked up, cold and edgy.

When they parted, she kept her eyes close to his. "I love you, Chuck Bartowski. I wanted to say that in the daylight." She wanted to say it when she could see his eyes.

She saw everything there she had hoped for.

"I love you too, Sarah."

"Okay, let's get to Marlena's and let's plan a way to end all of this, so we can concentrate on the day after tomorrow, on us."

Chuck nodded. "You know, Computer Control Systems has a research division in Chicago…"

Sarah gave Chuck her brightest smile. "Now that's good to know."

* * *

They trudged through the windblown snow and went up the stairs to Marlena's apartment. They knocked and she opened the door.

Her face was drawn, worried. "Sarah, I've been hoping you would come back soon. A man called from the Palmer House. A...Morgan...I think. Anyway, he said your roommate, Carina called."

Marlena looked down at a piece of paper in her hand. "Her manager at the Green Mill followed her home last night. He's still there, in a car outside the building. She wants to know what she should do."

Sarah looked at Chuck, then Marlena. "Have the others gotten back yet, Dad and Ellie and Devon?"

"No, not yet."

"Chuck, look, stay here. When they get back, start working on the code in the records. I'm going to go and get Carina, bring her back here. I'm worried Accardo will try to take her, use her as leverage against us…I've got my gun, my knife. I'll get her out of there."

"No, Sarah, I…"

"Chuck, I know how brave you are. But this is the kind of thing I was trained for, have done for years. I'll be back, with Carina, I promise. I need you to figure out what's in those records, otherwise, we are moving on the chessboard but without knowing where or what the opposing pieces are…"

Chuck slumped visibly. "Okay, but you come back to me. The day after tomorrow, remember?"

"I won't forget, Chuck." She gave him a quick kiss and turned to go.

Marlena stopped her. "Sarah, take my car." She stepped out of view and returned, a set of keys in her hand. "It's in the parking garage on the corner. Spot 51. A yellow VW."

"Thanks, Marlena," Sarah said as she took the keys. "Call Carina. Tell her I am coming. Describe the car. Tell her to wait at the door, inside, and to come out when she sees me." Marlena nodded.

Sarah gave Chuck one last quick kiss and ran down the stairs.

* * *

Sarah slowed the VW Bug as she approached her block. No one was immediately behind her, so she slowed even more.

She saw a brown Cadillac ahead, parked across the street from her building, down the block a short distance. Someone was seated inside. She was sure it was Carina's manager, Jack. _He would have my dad's name._ She saw him as she passed but he did not look at her, he was looking at the building. She could see the door of the building. She let the VW roll slowly as she passed the Caddilac.

The building's door opened and Carina came out quickly, aiming to intersect with Sarah. Sarah moved into the left-hand lane and reached across, opening the passenger door. Carina ran around the front of the car and jumped in as it was still rolling.

_Boom! Smash!_

A gunshot shattered the small rear window of the VW. Carina screamed.

Sarah punched the gas and the VW's tiny engine screamed along with Carina.

Sarah swerved back into her lane and turned right at the corner. She heard the Caddilac's tires squeal. Her only chance was to outmaneuver the other car; she could not outrun it.

A rabbit chased by a greyhound.

Carina dropped her purse on the floor and clicked her seatbelt. "You know," she said, her voice remarkably calm for a woman who had just screamed. "You kinda _suck_ as a roommate…"

Carina looked back and then gave Sarah a grin. "Sorry about the scream. Never been shot at before."

Sarah nodded, checking the rearview.

The Cadillac was closing, right on her bumper.

She waited until the last possible second, and, not knowing what she would find, she swung the car right violently, launching it into the mouth of a narrow alley.

Luck was with her. The alleyway was open.

She heard the Cadillac squeal to a stop, then accelerate. There was no way it could follow her into the alley.

It had been a day for alleys.

She punched the engine again. It screamed without Carina's help. They rocketed along the alleyway, and then into the next street.

A car flashed across their front, another across their rear, and then they were into the alley as it continued on the next block. It too was open but Sarah knew she had pushed her luck already.

At the next street, Sarah slowed and entered traffic, turning left. The light was green and she went through the intersection.

Just after she did, the Cadillac swept past in the opposite direction.

Traffic was heavy, and so there was no way for the Cadillac to turn. Sarah turned right and ducked the VW into a parking garage, whipping up the ramp and throwing Carina against her door.

After climbing to the top, Sarah found a spot near the ramp going down and pulled in. She left the engine running.

"Are you okay, Carina?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine, except for not getting much sleep. I kept watching Jack and his damn car. I thought at any moment he'd climb the stairs, come for me. He was out there when I got off the L. — Sarah, what did you do?"

"I paid his boss a visit, Accardo, and it turned out not-so-well for Accardo."

Carina's eyes widened. "You are truly a badass woman, Sarah Walker."

Sarah ducked her head. "Well, it wouldn't have gone well for me if Chuck and his sister and Devon hadn't come for me…"

In short sentences, she told Carina the story, all the while listening for the Cadillac. It never came.

"So, Chuck saved you. That's unexpected but...wonderful. And you say Devon was with them, with Chuck's sister."

Sarah realized that although she had not said anything about Ellie and Devon that made their growing attachment explicit, it was implicit in what she said. "Um, yeah, Carina, Devon's fallen pretty hard."

"Well, it's my damn fault for missing that train. And she sounds like a badass too. Good for Devon." Her tone was braver than her expression.

"Sorry, Carina."

She waved her hand. "Don't be. Life works the way life works. There are other fish in the sea and I am quite the bait…"

Sarah wrinkled her brow. "That's a strange metaphor."

"It's been a strange day. Get me out of here, to someplace where I can get a drink. I could use one, even if it is too early."

"Marlena will have something, I'm sure, but it will likely be exotic."

"Who's this Marlena?"

Sarah sighed. "I guess she's my dad's girlfriend."

* * *

Sarah returned the car Marlena's garage, to spot 51, dreading to tell Marlena about the damage.

She and Carina walked to the stairs and up. Sarah knocked. Chuck opened the door. His face fell.

The reaction unsettled Sarah. "Chuck?"

"I thought maybe you were Jack?"

"Jack? My dad? Aren't he and Ellie and Devon back?"

"Ellie and Devon are. Jack's not." Chuck's face showed dread.

"Chuck…"

"Jack told Ellie he would carry her leather bag for her. She gave it to him. At some point, while she and Devon were trying to hail a taxi, your dad vanished. They searched for him but could not find him. They just got back a few minutes ago. — I think your Dad took the records, Sarah."

Sarah's stomach knotted. She had been conned. Played.

Perfectly.

Her dad had improvised. Like a master.

* * *

Chuck went to get Sarah a glass of water as Sarah sat down at the table.

Marlena sat down beside her. "Sarah, I am sorry…" Carina sat down on the other side of Sarah.

"You didn't know, Marlena, did you?" Sarah asked in a small voice.

"No, your father has never taken me into his...confidence." Marlena looked so sad that Sarah could not help but reach out and take one of her hands.

"Me either, Marlena. I can't believe he would risk the only thing I've ever really wanted for myself." She spoke in a whisper; both women looked at Chuck, standing at the sink.

"I don't know what to say, Sarah. He is a complicated man."

"Not that he has _ever_ been," Sarah said, her voice cracking, "but he is no longer my father."

Devon and Ellie got up from the small couch and approached the table, slowly.

Ellie stuck out her hand toward Carina, spoke softly. "Hey, Carina, I'm Ellie."

Carina looked Ellie up and down for a second, as Ellie did the same to her, then Carina nodded appreciatively, grinning for a second at Devon. "Hey, Ellie, great to meet you." She matched Ellie's soft tone.

Devon watched the handshake, slightly red, but as it ended he took a step toward Sarah.

"Sarah, I'm going to go and get a couple of those record books from the office supply store. Maybe we can fake them well enough to get Algernon to trade the antidote."

Sarah nodded. "Thanks, Devon. Chuck, can you remember that first page well enough to reproduce it?"

Chuck crossed the room and handed Sarah the glass of water. His gaze became introspective. "Yeah, I can reproduce it, I think. While I do it, maybe I can break the code."

"Okay," Sarah said, standing up, gathering herself, "okay, let's do it. I'm going to call Casey and Morgan and put this all in motion. I'm not waiting around until tomorrow. As Ellie said, Algernon can't know exactly when the poison will begin to affect Chuck, if it does.

"We can't take the chance that Algernon is lying — and we can't be sure of the Succimer. I have no idea what Dad is planning. It's time for the endgame."

* * *

A/N: And so now we head into the final chapters of our story.


	29. The Ghosts Were Only Dropping

A/N: More Hotel Detective.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Ghosts Were Only Dropping

* * *

Wednesday, November 10, 1965  
Above_ Drab Olive Drab _Surplus, Chicago  
Mid-afternoon

* * *

Devon left for the office supply store.

He gave Ellie a quick, self-conscious kiss goodbye, a kiss she returned with equal self-consciousness.

Watching, Carina tried to smother her rueful expression beneath a smile.

Chuck sat down on the couch, pensive and pale. He kept rubbing his palms along his pants.

Marlena had gotten up after Sarah stood and found a wire-bound notebook and pen. She took them to Chuck and he took them, nodding his thanks. He opened the notebook and started scribbling.

Ellie walked to Sarah and took the glass of water out of Sarah's hand.

Sarah realized she had just been standing there like statuary as all this happened around her.

Ellie put the glass on the table. "Sarah, I'm sorry. I didn't think, I just handed Jack the records…"

Sarah forced herself out of her pain and panic, forcing herself to attend to Ellie.

"Don't, Ellie," Sarah said, "It's what he does: he gets you to trust him and then…"

"Yeah," Ellie replied softly, "but we'll figure this out. We're a good team. You're the best. Just tell us what to do."

"Get Chuck to take some more Succimer and drink. Give him my water. I need a minute or two, just to focus."

Ellie nodded and Sarah went into the bathroom. She leaned on the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. _Goddamn it, Dad. How could you? _ Sarah studied her face, studied it closely and for a long time.

Sarah could see her dad's features in her own. She was starting to plan for the day after tomorrow, for a future with Chuck. — But what kind of future could she offer him, given her past, the way she had been raised, lived?

The last few days had not only turned her to her future, but they had also returned her to her past — Algernon, and now her dad. The past few days had been spinning her around: present, past, future, present, past, future. It was like she was living her past, her present and her future all at the same time.

She and Chuck had not talked about what their future might hold beyond _them_. But could she really trust herself with Chuck's heart? — Chuck was not the problem; Sarah was.

No childhood to speak of, except in the biological or legal sense — she had been _young_ once, but hardly a child, never been a child as other children were. She had graduated from that minority into a crude majority, from her half-life with her father, into a different half-life with Joad and the Company. The two half-lives did not make a whole, did not make her whole. Not close.

She was broken, her father's daughter. Her past would _out_, claim or darken her future.

What kind of future could she offer Chuck?

How could she know that when all this ended, if it ended with everyone okay, she would still feel like she now felt? She could not trust her father. Maybe she was _conning_ herself? How could she trust herself? Maybe she only make-believed in a future with Chuck, maybe...

"Sarah?" A soft knock on the bathroom door. "Sarah?" It was Chuck. She opened the door and he came inside and, without speaking, enfolded her in his long arms. "It's okay."

"No, Chuck, it's not. My dad, _my dad_ took the records…That's the man who raised me."

"Yeah, yeah, he did. But maybe he took the records for some good reason. And, anyway, I'm pretty sure I couldn't have given them to Algernon to save myself."

Sarah started to protest — but Chuck leaned down to kiss her, stopping her mouth.

For a moment, Sarah resisted the kiss, then she accepted it, then she returned it. It deepened; Chuck was her anchor. She felt herself stabilize, her self-doubt calm.

_I love this man. I do not have to repeat my father's mistakes. Biology, training, neither is destiny. I believe in us, Chuck. _

Chuck pulled away from the kiss after a moment. "Could you really give the records to Algernon, to the KGB? You, a former CIA agent?"

Sarah answered without hesitation. "If it meant keeping you alive, absolutely. If those were my choices."

Chuck looked at her, biting his bottom lip. "Well, giving up the records is not a choice now. The records are gone."

He breathed in, out. "I was able to reproduce that first page. I can fake another few pages in that style. I can see a _very basic_ pattern in the code, although I haven't broken it. The pages will just be gibberish, fake code, since I don't understand it."

Sarah kissed him. "Just work on breaking it for now. When Devon gets back, we'll decide what to do. We have to hurry. I assume Dad is going to sell the records. His 'big score' at last.

"He won't sell them to the FBI, obviously, or to the KGB: at least, I don't think so, he's a scoundrel but kind of a patriot. He'll probably approach Accardo. But he knows it's dangerous, and he'll ask for a fortune, so he'll be canny about it. Still, the word that the records are out and for sale may get out and get out soon. This isn't Dad's kind of play; he's neither mobster nor spy. We can't have it getting back to Algernon."

Chuck's face looked pained. "Sarah, I need to go."

"Go?" Sarah felt her heart speed up.

"No, no. Not go, _go_...the Succimer…"

"Oh, I'll leave you to it." She stepped out and closed the door. The lock's click reminding her — _tick, tick, tock_.

* * *

Carina and Ellie and Marlena were seated at the small table. Ellie and Marlena were drinking tea from cups. Carina was drinking pearlescent liquid from a shot glass.

Sarah crossed to the couch and tore out a clean sheet of paper. She looked at Marlena and Marlena, nodding, went into the kitchen, returning with a pencil. Sarah took it and joined them at the table.

She reached for Carina's shot glass and sipped at it. It burned sweetly.

"Hey," Carina said in a mild protest.

"Țuică?" Sarah asked Marlena.

Marlena smiled. "You know it?"

"Drank it in Romania once."

Carina shook her head. "I constantly forget the strange life you've lived."

"I keep trying to forget it too, but it won't forget me.."

Carina started to smirk then saw the seriousness in Sarah's features. "It's okay, girl. We can figure this out."

Sarah did not respond. She took the paper and pencil and began to sketch the Palmer House and its surroundings.

Chuck came out of the bathroom and went back to the couch, started scribbling again.

She needed to get to 2022 with Chuck and the records, the fake records. That meant getting into the Palmer House unseen, and then to 2022 unseen.

Accardo, the Outfit, was looking for them. The FBI was looking for them. The KGB was waiting for them. The CIA, in the person of Lakoff, was lurking around, involved. The KGB, unbelievably, was not the first problem.

Sarah would deal with Algernon and his men when they brought the antidote in trade.

The problem was the Outfit and the FBI. Lakoff was a wild card.

Sarah could not get everyone into the hotel at once. But maybe she could use folks as lures, Devon's word, as decoys?

She could send Devon and Ellie somewhere near the Palmer House, _Patel's_, and have Devon call Rizzo from there, tell her he was with Ellie and Ellie needed to talk to Rizzo in person. That would get rid of Rizzo for a time.

Accardo had the manager of the Green Mill follow Carina home. Presumably, the Outfit was watching Carina in hope that she would lead them to Sarah. If Carina were to walk along in front of the Palmer House main entrance, visible in the way Carina was normally visible — at least to men — she would attract their attention. She could then duck into a nearby business, the department store a few doors down, someplace with people.

Coordinated, the phone call from Devon and Carina's open-air catwalk would give Sarah a chance to get into the hotel with Chuck.

Once inside, they could take the stairs to 2022 if necessary, or take them part of the way. When they were in the room, she could announce that she had the records to Algernon and wait for him to show himself — with the antidote.

Devon arrived. He had a bag from the office supply store in his hand. He immediately took them to Chuck. From her seat, Sarah could see that they were the same brand as the ones they found at St. Vincent's. Chuck took them, pulled the price tags off and thumbed through them, then he took on, set it on the coffee table beside the notebook he had been scribbling in, and started copying from the latter into the former. _Tick, tick, tock. _

Sarah saw Chuck grimace.

"Chuck, is your ulcer acting up?" Ellie asked. She had noticed the grimace too.

He looked up. "Maybe. I guess."

Ellie tried to hide her flash of concern. "I'll get you some bicarbonate of soda. Do you have some, Marlena?"

Marlena got up and went to the kitchen. Ellie went with her. A moment later they brought Chuck a small glass of water, swirling, a spoon tinkling in it. He stirred it and drank it down. Ellie gave him a stern look. "Tell me how you feel in ten minutes or so, okay?"

Chuck nodded. Sarah realized she was gripping the seat of her chair, one hand on both sides. The panic that had driven her into the bathroom was returning. Loosening her hands, she gave Chuck a soft glance and he smiled.

"Devon, Ellie, Carina, while Chuck works, let me tell you my plan. Chuck and I need to get to 2022 in the Palmer House. I need for you to lure the watchers away…"

* * *

Dusk approached, filled with blowing snow. The temperature, never climbing much during the day, had fallen as the sun sank. The wind was whipping off the Lake, making the cold colder. Sarah pushed a stray hair away from her face.

She and Chuck had taken a taxi to a parking garage not far from the entrance to the hotel Sarah used for work, the one that took them to the basement. She looked at her watch.

5:43 pm. She and Devon and Carina had synchronized watches.

At 5:40 pm, Devon was to call Rizzo. That should already have happened.

At 5:50 pm, Carina was to walk along the street. Marlena had given Carina a long, bright red wool scarf, to keep her warm but mainly to act as an added beacon, in case Carina's hair was not enough of one.

At 5:53 pm, Sarah and Chuck would make for the entrance. Each had on an old coat from _Drap Olive Drab_, each black, as well as a hat, Sarah's a boonie hat, her hair up, hidden inside it, Chuck's a black beret. He was holding Sarah close and she put her head close to him, breathed him in. It calmed her but she was far from calm. She could feel the fake records beneath his coat.

Chuck seemed to be feeling better but Sarah had seen two or three more grimaces, despite his attempts to hide them. She had no way of knowing whether it was his ulcer or Algernon's poison. She tried not to think about it.

It was not her most immediate problem. They needed to get inside, to 2022. She closed her eyes and fought for focus.

She checked her watch again. 5:50 pm. Cue Carina.

The main entrance was on another side of the hotel, so there was no way for Sarah to know if Carina's walk had the desired effect, she just had to hope it would.

Sarah forced herself to breathe. She looked at Chuck. "One minute, sweetie."

"Sweetie?"

Sarah gave him a quick, strained grin. "Just trying it out. Too much?"

"No, baby, just right."

She lifted an eyebrow. "_Baby_? Me?"

"To me," Chuck said, a tenderness in his voice that made Sarah weak all over. "Too much?"

"No, just right." She kissed him quickly.

She looked at her watch, took a breath, and grabbed Chuck's hand.

A blast of wind raged through the open door of the garage, and they both ducked involuntarily, snow blowing in their faces.

Running, they crossed the street to the side door and into the Palmer House.

* * *

They made it to the stairs without an encounter. They climbed to the fifth floor. On the fifth floor landing, Chuck stopped, bending over. Sarah heard him moan softly.

"Chuck?"

He stayed in the bent posture but waved his hand at her. "I'll be okay."

They climbed three more floors. Chuck stopped again, bent over again. The moan this time was louder, longer. Sarah felt her heart thumping, and not from the climb.

We'll take the elevator from here."

Chuck looked up, pain in his eyes. "Thanks, baby." Sarah kissed him then opened the stairwell door. The elevator was on the other end of the hallway but the hallway was empty.

"C'mon, sweetie." They walked quickly along the length of the hallway, each step making it seem longer. Sarah could hear them both breathing. Each footfall and breath seemed amplified by her nerves, her dread.

She punched the _Up _button. The elevator arrived, mercifully empty. They got on and punched the button for the twentieth floor.

On the eighteenth floor, the elevator stopped. Sarah slipped her hand in her coat. An elderly man got on. He smiled at them, his head bobbing, a tuft of white hair atop his head standing up, rooster-like. "Sorry, I'm just going three floors, but I can't climb like I used to." He got on and kept smiling. After a moment, he leaned toward Chuck. "She is a special one, I can tell. And not just because she's beautiful. Don't let her get away from you, young man."

The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor. Chuck gave the old man a smile. "Our floor. And I don't plan to, sir." Sarah checked. The hallway was empty. They got off, the old man waving at them as they did.

Sarah grabbed one of Chuck's hands with one of hers and fished her keys out of her coat pocket with the other. She half-pulled him to 2022. As they neared the door, they heard yells from 2024. They stopped.

"The Jameses? Fighting again?"

They listened for a moment more. Sarah tilted her head and gave Chuck a look. "No, they're not _fighting._"

Chuck's eyes widened. "Oh, assuming it's Mrs. James in there."

Sarah pulled him next door. She turned the skeleton key in the lock and pushed the door open slightly. The lights were on in the room. She dropped her keys back in her pocket, reached beneath her coat and got her gun. She put her finger to her lip and turned, leading Chuck inside.

Sarah's dad was prone on the floor of the room. The leather bag was on the floor beside him, its contents spilled around it, Ellie's things. There were no records.

There was no blood. Sarah rushed to her dad. When she got closer, she saw the tranq dart on the floor near him. She checked his pulse. He was alive, drugged, but alive. She noticed an unbent bobby pin on the floor.

Sarah grabbed the bag and rummaged in it. The records were gone. _Gone_.

Chuck came and knelt beside her. "Is Jack…?"

"No, he's been tranqed, like you were, but he came here, to 2022. What the hell did he think he was doing?"

"That's what I'd like to know…" A voice said from the doorway, accompanied by the sound of the door closing. Sarah turned to look.

Agent Lakoff was standing there, gun out, silenced, trained on Sarah and Chuck.

Lakoff gestured for Sarah and Chuck to move away from Jack. They did.

"What do you want, Lakoff?" Sarah demanded, tense, ready, examining the room, Lakoff himself.

"That will be clear in a minute." Lakoff stood with the gun on them, his face calm, dangerous.

Time stretched out and kept stretching. _Tick, tick, tock, tick, tick, tock._

Sarah saw Chuck grimace but fight to stay upright.

A moment later, there was a soft knock on the door.

Lakoff opened it.

CIA Director Joad strode into the room.

"Hello, Agent Walker. I was somehow sure we would meet again. Oh, and Daddy, too."

Joad's slow smile was colder than the wind off the Lake.

All Sarah Spook's ghosts had gathered.

* * *

A/N: Cue _noir_ spy music. The bit I have in mind is on YouTube, under: _The Spy - Noir/Jazz Music_. That's been in my head as I wrote this novel. I'll link it on the Chuck Fanfiction FB page.

We're in the final chapters now, events and revelations. This chapter sets the table...

Thoughts?

I hope everyone is doing well. Safe and sound and shut-in.

My intention is for this to be the last long Zettel tale. From here on out, unless I co-author something, my novel-length work will be devoted to original tales. I may still write an occasional _Chuck _novella or short-story or one-shot, but that will be all.


	30. The Fog of (Cold) War

A/N: More Hotel Detective. We are close to the end.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Thirty: The Fog of (Cold) War

* * *

Sarah was stunned.

"Director?"

Chuck's head snapped around; he stared at Sarah. "Director?" Chuck asked her, mouthing the word more than saying it.

Joad's cold smile was frozen in place. A tall man with a face that seemed to be running backward away from the point of his sharp nose, his teeth were small and yellow.

He walked to Sarah's dad, unconscious on the ground, and stepped on the fingers of the nearest hand. He leaned his weight forward and Sarah heard a snap. Chuck gagged beside her.

Joad glanced at them, his expression was matter-of-fact. "I guess he is out. We needed to be sure. I did."

Giving Lakoff a look, Joad knelt and rummaged through the spilled contents of the leather bag. Then he picked up the bag and searched inside it.

"I believe that someone in this room has something I want," Joad announced as he stood up. "Records, I believe."

Sarah dared not look at Chuck but she willed him not to speak. They needed time, she needed time to regroup. She had told Devon she would phone him at 6:05 pm, after they had let Algernon know they had the records. The fake records.

_Where are the real ones?_

It had to be about 6:05 pm, maybe a little later, now.

Maybe Devon would come. Or maybe Algernon would hear all this. But maybe Algernon already had the records and was gone, taking the antidote with him.

Maybe. Maybe she could get to Lakoff or her gun before Lakoff reacted.

_Maybe_. And maybe Chuck would get shot in the melee or gunplay.

Joad shook his head. "Always a woman of few words, eh, Agent. I take it this is Charles Bartowski. He must be the explanation for those silly hats" Joad examined Chuck like a mounted specimen, smirking at his beret. He glanced at Sarah, surprise on his face, then he shrugged. He chuckled low at her Boonie hat.

"Where are the records, Agent? Turn them over. I appeal to your patriotism, your love of country, your sense of duty." Sarah could almost hear _The Star-Spangled Banner _playing in the background.

Sarah knew her face showed her feelings, her contempt for Joad. She could not prevent it.

"You are going to talk to me about those things? With Lakoff holding a gun on us?"

The Director's eyes widened, then narrowed. "I have found that although duty can move people to action occasionally, it is their self-interest that is most trustworthy."

Sarah stole a glance at the clock by the bed. 6:12 pm.

"We don't have the records," Sarah said, again willing Chuck to play along. "My dad had them — and now he doesn't. We don't know where they are."

Joad stepped closer to Sarah but not too close.

"I cannot claim to have turned you into a liar, Agent." He nodded to Jack on the floor. "Daddy gets the credit for that. But I sanded and polished you, brought your native gifts to a high luster. — Don't try to lie to me. I know you have them, or you know where they are."

"No, we don't."

"That's too bad because I do not have time to wrangle, Agent. _Give_ me those records."

Sarah was doing what she wanted. Stalling, and working to make Joad accept the fake records as real if she finally surrendered them. She had to make him think she did not want him to get them, act as if they were real.

"What's in the records that's of so much interest to the CIA?"

"You are no longer with the Company, Agent, and so you do not need to know. Suffice it to say that the documents are vital to national security."

"But if that's true, why make Lakoff here a double-agent, infiltrating the FBI? Why not work together, Company and Agency?"

"I am not answerable to you for my decisions or my actions. I have done what I deemed best; that's all you need to know. So, where can I find the records?"

Sarah put reluctance into her voice, into her pretended admission. "We sold them to Tony Accardo. Dad did. They met here. I guess Accardo or his man welched on the deal. There's no money, and there was supposed to be money. A _lot_ of it."

Joad folded his arms but he was becoming agitated. "I'm supposed to think a member of the Outfit tranqed your father? Not impossible, I admit, but a clash of...styles. Mr. Bartowski, is that what happened? You were part of a scheme to sell the records to a mobster?"

"I do what Sarah says," Chuck replied in a soft voice.

Joad shook his head. "That I do not doubt, but it is not an answer. — One last chance, Sarah. Give me the records. If they are not here, tell me where they are. Chuck can stay until you produce them. Give them to me."

Joad glanced at Lakoff. Sarah glanced at the clock. 6:17 pm.

She had stalled for almost as long as she could. "Or what?"

"Or Agent Lakoff shoots Mr. Bartowski. Someplace non-lethal but painful, first…"

Chuck stepped toward Lakoff as if inviting the shot. "Hey, we're citizens!"

"Chuck, no," Sarah said. "Just...give him the records. We've played our hand. We lose." Sarah stepped forward, even with Chuck.

Chuck unbuttoned his coat and pulled it open. The two volumes were tucked into his belt. He pulled one free and handed it out to Joad. Joad reached out for it without getting any closer to Sarah and Chuck.

Chuck had reproduced the first page and faked three more pages. He handed that volume to Joad. Sarah waited, holding her breath. Joad opened the volume and stared at the first page. A minute passed, two. Joad looked up at them. He thumbed to the next page and gave it a cursory glance. He shut the volume. Sarah breathed silently.

He held out his hand for the second. Chuck extended it to Joad, spine up. _You are clever, Chuck. _

Joad took it and, instead of taking the time to turn it and open it, he put the first on top of it. He motioned for Lakoff to come closer.

"You have them now," Chuck said as Lakoff closed the distance. "Go save the nation, and let us go."

"Well," Joad said, "I'm afraid that's not the plan. Letting you go, that is. Not consistent with what the country needs to have happen. Normally, you two would be heroes for what you have done, and you are, but heroes destined to be unsung."

He hunched and rolled his shoulders, frowning. "Alright, Agent Lakoff, it's time for us all to leave…"

Sarah felt her stomach sink. She knew Joad, his tones of voice.

The door to the room swung open as Joad pointed to Sarah and Chuck. Devon was on his knees, his skeleton key in his hand. Behind and above him stood Agent Rizzo, her gun out.

"No one move…" Rizzo said, her voice low and dangerous.

* * *

Lakoff kept his eyes and his gun on Sarah and Chuck.

Joad smiled and opened his arms.

"Agent Rizzo, come in. You are just in time to help. I'm afraid this is now a Company operation, a matter of national security, but I will be happy to put a private commendation on your record."

Rizzo did not lower her gun but her gaze became confused. Devon looked at Sarah and Chuck and Joad and Lakoff, and back to Joad. His eyes focused on the records in Joad's hands.

"Come in," Joad repeated. Lakoff kept his gun on Sarah and Chuck but he seemed unsure.

Rizzo lowered her gun and stepped past Devon. He stood up after she passed him. He followed her in. Rizzo looked at Jack's unconscious form, at Sarah. Sarah gave her head a subtle shake. _No. _

Rizzo lowered her gun but kept it in her hand. She turned slowly to Lakoff. "Lakoff, what the hell are you doing here — with the Director of the CIA?"

Devon started at Joad's title even as he stared at Jack. "Sarah's dad! Is he…?"

"Sarah's _dad_?" Agent Rizzo.

"No," Chuck said, answering Devon, "no, he's tranqed. We found him this way."

Rizzo shook her head and looked at Sarah. Then Rizzo noticed the records under Joad's arm. "What are _those_, Director?"

"The records of Manny Sklar and Maria Tomek."

Rizzo's eyes shone. "I've been looking for those," she turned to Chuck, "and looking for you."

Chuck put up his hands. "I had nothing to do with Maria's death."

Rizzo ignored Chuck. "So, Walker, he was with you all along. Impressive. Maybe if I hadn't believed all that Ice Queen stuff about you, I'd have figured this right long ago. I fell for your whole not-interested-in-Bartowski _schtick_. I should have noticed that the Ice Queen was glowing."

After giving Sarah a bitter smile, Rizzo turned back to Joad. "It doesn't seem to me that it is at all clear who's leaving here with those records. From what I've been told, by Maria herself, those records spell the end of Accardo and the Outfit. I'm not planning on letting you bury the records someplace at Langley."

Joad stretched to his full height. "Your plans have little to do with the disposition of these records, Agent Rizzo. Lakoff has been with you all along and reporting to me. Your boss knows it. The records were going to end up with me one way or the other. I've just saved the DC couriers some time."

Rizzo blinked. "So, why would the CIA care about the records? What do you care about the Outfit?"

"I care nothing about them, under ordinary circumstances. But they managed to mix themselves with the KGB, to cross certain lines, to involve themselves in missions involving CIA deep cover operatives posing as KGB, double-agents.

"The information in the records would, it's true, damage the Outfit, but unfortunately, it would also compromise ongoing, critical CIA missions. I should not say this, but I feel I must: one of those missions involves your father, Agent Rizzo. I can't say any more than that, but I feel it only fair to make you understand what these records might do if they fell into the wrong hands, or were brought to light in criminal trials, —the lives that could be endangered.

"It's 1965, Agent Rizzo, ask yourself: what is the greater threat to our American Way of Life, the Chicago Outfit, Tony Accardo, or the Soviet Union, Leonid Brezhnev?"

Agent Rizzo stood silently, her gun in her hand, her shoulders sagging. Joad watched her and spoke again.

"I promise that _if_, once the records have been vetted, there is any information on the Outfit that can be safely released, I will see that you are the FBI agent who receives it. I am sorry about Lakoff's deception, and so is he, but I had to have someone involved who could make sure the records ended up where they needed to be — where they now are."

He nodded toward the records still under his arm.

Rizzo looked at the records and then at Sarah. "So, you had them all along too?"

"No, I...we just found them this morning."

"Why were you looking for them?"

"We wanted to clear Chuck's name, and we found...some clues…Things got complicated."

Rizzo frowned. "I won't ask." She faced Joad. "And what happens to them, Walker and Bartowski?"

"They will come with me and Agent Lakoff. They must be...debriefed."

Devon finally seemed to come to full awareness of the situation. "Debriefed? What's that mean? Custody? Are they prisoners? I don't understand."

"You don't need to. Come along, Agent Lakoff. Bring Walker and Bartowski. We'll go down the stairs and out the back way. A van is waiting for us."

Clearing her throat, Rizzo stepped in Joad's way. "This just seems...strange. I don't get it. Why infiltrate the FBI? Why are you, the CIA Director, here, _in person_?" She glanced past Joad to Sarah. "This feels...off."

Joad shrugged. "We are the CIA, Miss Rizzo, not the FBI. Your rules are not our rules. I have given you more explanation than I was obliged to."

Rizzo stood, indecisive, then with a frustrated sigh, she stepped out of the way. "My dad? Really?"

"Yes, and be assured, he will be safer because of what's happened here tonight." Joad looked at Lakoff.

Chuck crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Director. I'm a citizen; Sarah's a citizen."

"Chuck should be allowed to see his sister," Devon interjected, "They should be allowed to call a lawyer. They have rights."

"Rights are a luxury of _peace_," Joad said in a tone of flat exasperation and confident entitlement, "and this is the _Cold War_."

* * *

Sarah had no idea what to do.

_Baffled. Frozen. Cold War. _

It was all winding down, winding, winding, winding all the wrong way. Twisting out of her grasp.

She had watched all of the exchanges with growing hopelessness, feeling fogged in, disoriented.

Algernon had the records and was in the wind. No antidote.

It was all happening so fast and Sarah could not pull it all in focus, all that Joad was saying, all that his tone implied. The tension between the words and the tone.

Her focus was Chuck.

If Algernon had poisoned Chuck, the antidote was out of Sarah's reach. The effort and exhaustion of the last five days settled on her like a crushing weight, increasing her sense of despair. Her shoulder ached, so did the side of her face. Mostly, her heart ached.

So much _ache._

She had been close, they had been _so_ close...

And now, given what she knew of Joad, given the way he had been talking before Rizzo showed up, his tone, Sarah would lose Chuck, he would die of the poison. Joad would not help. Sarah would be dumped in a forgotten bunker or an unmarked grave.

She had known it to happen to others who Joad had personally _debriefed_. Personal. This was personal for Joad. He had cultivated her, trained her, warned her not to quit. Quit him. Warned her.

But if Chuck was dead, she did not care what happened to her, because, in a way, _everything_ had: she had been thawed, made real, fallen in love, changed her understanding of herself. All because she dropped her fountain pen. All in a few feverish days.

She took Chuck's hand in hers.

She was not going to miss a moment of contact with him, not now, whatever happened. Her love for him outshone her despair, chasing its shadows away.

He looked at her, his eyes as they had been earlier in the day when they had shown her everything she hoped to see — herself as he saw her, and his love for her.

Sarah heard a sound, a click, and turned her head.

The door of the room opened. An arm extended into the room, and a hand tossed a grenade.

A grenade!

It bounced, thudding, once, twice, three times, on the floor, slow motion. No one moved for a split second, then Sarah threw herself on top of Chuck.

The grenade did not explode. It spewed gas.

A moment later, as she lost consciousness, Chuck slumped beneath her, Sarah saw a man in a gas mask enter the room. He had a gun in one hand and a bag in the other…

...

* * *

A/N: One more regular chapter to come, followed by an epilogue.

Thoughts?


	31. Kool and Hot

A/N: Final regular chapter of our story.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Chapter Thirty-One: Kool and Hot

* * *

Wednesday, November 10, 1965  
The Palmer House Hotel, Chicago  
Room 2022

* * *

Sarah opened her eyes to fog.

Or gas.

Gas.

She blinked. Blinked again. She was staring at the ceiling of a Palmer House room, presumably 2022.

She was not on top of Chuck; she was not on the floor. She was on something soft.

The bed.

But the air was foggy.

Or gassy.

Gas. The grenade.

She sat up immediately and regretted it. The pain in her head was blinding and she squeezed her eyes shut. _Chuck! _She opened her eyes and turned her head.

Chuck was on the bed, beside her. She grabbed his arm. He moved in response, coming to consciousness but more slowly than Sarah.

The air was foggy. Or gassy.

Or smoky. Cigarette smoke.

She turned to see Algernon seated in the room's armchair.

Algernon had dragged it from its normal position near the bed into the middle of the floor, and he was surrounded by unconscious bodies. Jack, Devon, Rizzo, Joad, and Lakoff.

On the floor by the armchair, on one side, was a gas mask. On the other side was a black bag, a leather briefcase. Perched on the top of the briefcase was a pack of non-filter Kool cigarettes and a Soviet-make petrol lighter.

Algernon had his legs crossed and was smoking contemplatively, his head turned, watching the soft-falling snow outside the window. The window was cracked and Sarah could feel the cold air wafting in, see a few snowflakes blown inside to melt into nothing. Algernon took a puff of his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the general direction of the window, then he turned to Sarah. The records — Sarah was unsure if they were fake or real — were in his lap.

"Algernon," Sarah managed to croak out, her throat sandy, her tongue tingly, like she had somehow slept on it.

"Agent Walker, no, _Detective_ Walker. I suspected you would be quickest to respond to the drug I used to counteract the gas. Tranqed before, no doubt, and building an immunity..."

Sarah moved her tongue and her lips, trying to force normal feeling back into them. "Are they all…"

"Gassed. _Non-lethally_, as you have just discovered. But I have not administered the counteragent to any of them, only to the two of you. Frankly, I would rather they...rested. Others will arrive soon to separate the sheep from the goats, and to see that everyone revives safely."

Sarah shook her head. She saw Chuck move his arm, his leg. She looked at Algernon.

He was encircled by smoke, garlanded by unconscious bodies. His hair was wild, _clownish, _Sarah shuddered, worse than it normally looked when he was Jeff Barnes, and his face had lost the definition it had in the car. He seemed half Jeff Barnes, half Algernon, in-between.

"I don't understand."

"I will explain, but first, see to Mr. Bartowski. He is almost conscious, and I imagine the first thing he will want to see is you. Don't worry, I won't see anything I haven't heard." He gave her a quick, apologetic smile.

She scooted up the bed a little and leaned down. Chuck opened his eyes. He saw her and he gave her a heavy, sleepy smile. "Hey, baby…"

"Hey, sweetie...You need to wake up. Algernon is here."

Chuck seemed to go back to sleep — then he sat up immediately. He grabbed his head after he did. "Oh, Oh, Oh!"

"It's okay, Algernon gave us a drug to counteract the gas.

"The grenade was _gas_?"

"Yes."

Chuck had his head cradled in his hands. He looked up. "Algernon gave me...another...drug? Does he have the antidote?"

The question was at the forefront of Sarah's mind too, she grabbed one of Chuck's hands and wheeled to face Algernon.

"Ah, yes, the antidote. I'm afraid you are going to be...unhappy with me about that. There is no antidote."

Sarah tried to stand but wobbled and fell back, seated, onto the bed. Her stomach flipped.

"Sorry, Detective, the counteragent has strong side effects but they are temporary. In another fifteen minutes or so, you will begin to feel more normal."

"_No antidote_," Sarah hissed, "you…"

"There is no antidote because there is no poison."

Chuck was still rubbing his head: he stopped. "No poison?"

"No, and I am sorry to have manipulated you so cruelly," Algernon offered, glancing at Chuck, "sorry for using the Detective's feelings to manipulate her."

Chuck peered at Algernon as if he were out-of-focus. "So, I sucked down all that Succimer for nothing?" Chuck's _S's_ lisped slightly.

Algernon's manner shifted; he chuckled and took another puff. "Ah, you were trying to remedy yourself." He made a face. "Succimer. Yuck. A _mercaptan_ taste and odor, rotting cabbages, old tube socks. I am sorry that I caused that insult to be added to the injury of my deception."

Chuck worked his tongue and lips. "Why do it?"

Sarah nodded.

Algernon produced a small, topaz ashtray from beneath the records in his lap and he balanced it on one of the armchair's arms, tapping his cigarette's ash into it. "As I told you, Detective, you could do things I couldn't, go to places I couldn't go. And you proved me right about that. You succeeded fabulously. You are everything I expected — more."

Sarah wanted to attack Algernon but she was too weak still, too sick to her stomach. And too relieved. All she could do was ask the next question.

"At what did I succeed? I mean, yes, we found the records, but Chuck didn't break the code."

"Actually," Chuck said, still moving his tongue around beneath his lips, "I did break it, too late. The whole pattern didn't hit me until Joad started for the door. And I only saw the first page, remember. But it was a record of comings and goings, people, money, drugs, weapons. Mob stuff, but not only that."

"No, Chuck," Algernon said, "not only that. Let me tell you the story — briefly — from the beginning. Algernon's beginning. Except, you see, there is no Algernon, no more than there was a poison or an antidote."

He took one last puff on the vanishing end of his Kool, then stubbed it out in the ashtray. "I can't tell you how long I looked forward to that cigarette. If I had to smoke another Belomorkanal…" He looked at Chuck. "Soviet cigarettes. They taste like sh..._Succimer_."

Chuck made a face.

Sarah shook her head again. "I still don't understand."

"I'm sorry. My name is not Algernon. My name is not Jeff Barnes. — You don't need to know my name, but you do need to know that I am — sort of — CIA. I was recruited many years ago, very young, and when I went through the Farm. I excelled there. They erased my records when I finished, but if they had not, they would have stood until you, Detective, went through the Farm. You beat my _high scores_, or so I have been told. I believe it now.

"I was taken out of the Farm just before graduation, installed in an off-the-books, multi-agency, top-secret, deep-cover, long-term assignment." He smiled. "Quite a mouthful and living it was harder than saying it. I was put through long intensive training in Russian, all things Russian. They made me Russian.

"They wiped me off the CIA books because I had to be untraceable. I was to become a double-agent, to go to Moscow and find my way into the KGB. I had no backup, no help. It was a brutal assignment. But the fear was that the Soviet Union had introduced young people, children, into the US years before, brainwashed, or maybe, since Mr. Bartowski is here, programmed, as folks are now saying. Sleeper agents. There were rumors that some of those children had grown up and were now assuming positions of influence and power in the US. I was a _reverse-sleeper,_ sent in as if Russian, to identify and hunt their sleepers.

"After a few years, I was able to get myself noticed and recruited into the KGB, to become an agent for them. I had two US handlers, one in the CIA, one in the NSA. But no one else knew about me, my work, my mission. We were not sure who might be one of the programmed Soviets, where they might be.

"So, I worked alone, with very little friendly contact. But I succeeded. I identified a number of the programmed Soviets, sleepers, and they were...quietly eliminated. My handlers found ways of attributing various CIA op failures, the unfortunate losses of certain agents, to Algernon, to me, though I had nothing to do with them, and so, even as I worked against the Soviets, my stature in the KGB grew. I had a reputation as having a nose for Americans, for the CIA; I got more and more freedom…" he huffed at the word, "...as a KGB agent.

"But eventually I came to suspect that Joad was a programmed Soviets, a sleeper. I won't go into the details, but I picked up hints in Moscow, in various places, that the programming had paid remarkable and unhoped-for dividends.

"But I could prove nothing. His birth records all seemed legitimate. His parents were dead. He never bloodied his own hands; he was a master manipulator. I was virtually certain his rise in the CIA was a dark mirror of mine in the KGB. The KGB sacrificed missions and agents to help him rise, to give him credibility, status.

"The problem was that as Joad rose, his ability to do what he wanted to do became constrained. He could not turn CIA agents willy-nilly."

Algernon looked at Sarah and then at Lakoff on the ground.

"So, he did all that he could safely to create disaffected agents, loose cannons — his Interrogation Course, for example — as a way of decreasing morale, enlarging his pool of potential recruits. He was diverting secrets and money and weapons to the Soviets, but I could not figure out how.

"Until I realized he was using underworld characters to do it, conmen and criminals and mobsters. His use of you and your father, Detective, when you were still in high school, was twice at the cost of the CIA, the US, although you two believed you were helping.

"That was the beginning of a pattern. He eventually began to use Accardo and the Outfit, although I am not sure Accardo realized exactly what was happening; not at first. But Joad used mobsters, many from the Outfit, to kill CIA agents, other US intelligence personnel, government functionaries, and private citizens. He used them to move money and guns and drugs and women...and children. Awful stuff. But he did almost all of it through blind drones, people ultimately acting on his orders but who did not know it, or did not understand what was happening. He never dealt with Accardo or any mobster in person. He sometimes used loyal CIA operatives to carry out his wishes without them knowing it." Algernon looked at Rizzo. "Like her father. Agent Rizzo's dad is not one of Joad's, but Joad used him without his knowledge on occasion, like the times he used you and your father.

"He used the few agents he had personally turned, trusted, to create and contact the drones. Bonita Feres turned out to be one, or so I believe, but she killed herself, apparently, just a few months ago, before I could take her."

"Boneyard is dead?" Sarah asked, stunned, thinking of the woman the last time she saw her, in Paris.

Algernon nodded. "Her pistol in her mouth. Of course, there was no news about it. Just a quiet Langley star."

"But she...That means...Joad intended to, was trying to, recruit me..."

Algernon nodded again. "I suspect so. But you had the character to quit. And then I got my break. I found out from a contact I developed in the Outfit about Manny Sklar and Maria Tomek's records. And I knew that if I could get my hands on them, they would provide the proof I needed, the links from Joad to various...events, people."

"But Maria had no idea, did she, that the books had anything to do with the CIA?"

"No, neither she nor Sklar. Sklar intended to blackmail the Outfit. He had no idea he was slowly compiling a record that would indict Joad and the CIA as well as Accardo and the Outfit."

"But Maria was going to defect…" Sarah noted.

Algernon frowned. "Yes, she was. I made her believe that the records were what Joad told you they were, records that revealed CIA plans, agents, and so on. And in one sense that's true, but they were CIA agents who were Joad's double-agents.

"But she got...cocky, hard to handle. She thought that her connection to the KGB, supposed connection, made her untouchable, and she hoped she could milk more from Accardo, so she registered under her name, called him, to lure him in. And that got her killed. _Greed_. She was a seriously greedy woman.

"Maybe she was not always that way, but she became that way around the Outfit, with Sklar. Who knows what they did to her. — Of course, I should not complain about her greed. I was using it too."

"So, she _chose_ to register under her name?" Chuck asked.

"Yes, I did not realize she had done it until she was dead. I had given her quite a lot of cash and I guess she thought bills turned bullets. She wanted to double-dip." He picked up the Kool pack and shook out another cigarette while shaking his head. He lit it with the lighter, the smell of petrol briefly in the room.

He looked at the lighter, then displayed it to Sarah and Chuck. "_Souvenir_. Stole it at a bar in Moscow. It belonged to Brezhnev before he came to power. He forgot it by his empty vodka glass. Couldn't resist it. Doubt he ever missed it, but it means something to me."

He offered a Kool to Sarah, then to Chuck. Both turned slightly green and refused. He put the lighter in his pocket.

Sarah watched him inhale. "Why did you bug this room?"

"Well, I knew it was under construction, and I planned to hide Maria here until I could move her: she was going to go into NSA custody. But it was complicated." He smiled at Sarah. "You could say that you had my idea, Detective, you just hid a different person. And, everything was complicated for me because of Nemur and Strauss…"

"Where are they?"

"In a room down the hall, dead. You see, they are...were...KGB." He huffed bitterly. "They thought that everything I told you in the car was a lie, or if true, they interpreted it a different way. They did not believe I was an American, but they thought I wanted you to believe that, a red herring should you ever talk to anyone about me." He waved the cigarette. "And so on…"

"But how did you know about 2022?"

"Jeff Barnes had a confederate in the Palmer House."

Sarah stared at him then wanted to kick herself. "Louisa!"

Algernon nodded. "But I should say she was not personally involved in my _pretended _thefts. But she would answer questions for me about routines, staff, and so on. She's desperate for money, her kids, her husband sick…"

"But she was going through the hotel hunting for me, wasn't she?" Chuck asked.

Algernon shook his head. "No, she was working for me but she was looking for…"

"Joad," Sarah said.

"Yes, Joad. Lakoff felt like Rizzo was getting close, getting a better picture of Maria's background, and that she would soon find the records. He called Joad and Joad came. Joad was not going to let those records fall into any hands but his own. Not even Lakoff's.

"I got a tip from someone in DC when the plane left. But Joad did not check-in in person. Someone else did it and used an alias. But I knew in my gut he was here; I knew how he operated. So, I had Louisa checking on the rooms recently rented."

"So, she wasn't looking for me?"

"No, Chuck, if I may," he paused and Chuck nodded, "and she would never have disturbed this room because it was supposed to have no occupant. She had no idea you were here.

"I knew Joad had to be getting room service, so had to be — under an alias — a registered guest. Unfortunately, she never found him."

"So, my dad, he brought the records here and told you, the bugs, he had them?"

"Yes, and to his credit, _he did demand the antidote_ — plus _a lot_ of cash. I came up, tranqed him, and took them. I left him for you to find."

"And you were just going to leave, leave us to worry that Chuck would die tomorrow."

The apologetic grin returned. "No. I left a note in the bathroom, along with some aspirin for Jack. The note explains that there was no poison.

"But when I went to gather my things, to get out of Dodge, so to speak, I heard Joad arrive and...I couldn't leave you to him. I wanted to take him down in DC, let others handle it, and fade away. But, once he knew these records were fake, he probably would have killed you both. He certainly would have thrown you in a hole at least. I had done enough to you, asked enough of you, so to speak. My poison hoax was cruel, but it was fake. Joad was all-too-real.

"I just couldn't do it. And besides, events, and _you_, Detective, inspired me. I'm going to see that our sleeper friend here...quietly disappears...and that the CIA is rid of his influence...and then I am _done_. I quit. This has been my life for too long, such as it has been. I've hurt many innocent people and my justifications, well, let's they've soured on me. I hardly know who I am anymore — if I do at all. I'm not sure I can quit being Algernon, but I am going to try. I'm pretty sure my handlers will make my retirement sweet, sunny beaches and umbrella drinks and grass skirts and strong breezes."

"Wait, Joad said there was a van…"

"There was but Nemur and Strauss saw them arrive and used our other gas grenade on the team in it while I was...negotiating with your father…Joad never knew. I...retired them when they came back upstairs."

He took a long hit on the Kool, its end turning bright orange. He held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds before blowing it out his nose. He crushed the cigarette and stood up, resting the ashtray on the arm of the chair and securing the fake records in his hand. He opened his briefcase and slipped them inside, next to an almost identical pair. He put the cigarettes in too.

"Stay here. Folks will arrive soon, the good guys. There will be a debriefing, but a normal one, not one of Joad's. Cooperate, and you folks should be done with all this before it turns midnight. I've told them to go easy on you."

He moved to the other side of the chair and picked up the gas mask and put it inside, then shut the briefcase.

"One other thing," Sarah said, her hand in the air, stopping him, "How did Joad find us?"

"Um, I'm not sure. — Did you take the elevator up here?"

"Yes, but not until the eighth floor."

"Detective, that was a mistake. Ellie Mills' room was on the eighth floor and Lakoff was watching it off and on. He must have seen you."

Sarah dropped her head. Chuck put his arm around her. "It was my fault. My stupid ulcer. I was worried I was dying from poison. She was worried about me."

Algernon smiled sneakily back at them. "I have to say, that ulcer gave me the poison idea. Have a good life, Detective. Keep the fact that you broke that code to yourself, Chuck; it'll make the rest of the evening simpler. If things work out for me, you will never see me again." He glanced out the window. "Think of me when the weather warms, the grass greens and glows."

He left 2022.

* * *

Sarah got off the elevator in the lobby.

She had gone through almost three hours of questions, signed various documents. But it was over. All of it. Her relief had reenergized her.

The CIA and NSA had or would clean it up. Larkin, Shaw, Joey The Clown. Joad was gone, likely never to be seen again. The whole thing would be kept quiet. For Joad, at any rate, there would be no trial.

She saw Chuck standing near the front desk. He was talking to Norbert Davis. She felt full to bursting with hope and love.

"So," Norbert said, smiling at Sarah as she walked up, "Chuck tells me the murder has been solved and...everything is okay. But I have to say, he won't tell me what he means by 'everything'. Very mysterious. Hush-hush, almost...top secret?"

Sarah smiled at Chuck, a lighthouse smile, and took his hand. But she spoke to Norbert."We're not going to talk about it, but, yes, _everything is okay_."

Chuck leaned down and kissed her cheek, nuzzling it softly.

"I've been on the lookout for you two since the weekend, but _no luck. _And I have to leave town tomorrow. Back to my office, my Olympia typewriter, and prayers to the Muses.

"You can keep that copy of Playback, Chuck. I am glad to have met you both. I will be back next year, and maybe we can all have a drink together and you could tell me a _noir_ Just-So story, maybe prompt me for a new book?"

Chuck looked at Sarah and she nodded. "Norbert, it's a date."

"Wonderful. I will see you both then." Norbert gave them both a large smile and shook their hands before walking to the elevator.

Sarah looked around. "Where's Devon?"

"Um, he went downstairs with the boss, with Casey."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Oh. And Ellie?"

"One of the men who came in after Algernon left took her upstairs a little while ago — after he brought Devon down. The man said it wouldn't take too long. I expect her back any minute."

Robert came out of the office to stand at the desk. He nodded subtly to Sarah and she nodded back.

She looked at Chuck. "So, they said they took Dad to the hospital to see about his broken finger?"

"Yes," Chuck nodded, "and he called the front desk a minute ago from the hospital. He's been released. He's on his way to Marlena's."

"Oh, good. Probably better I have...time before I see him again." She glared, shaking her head, thinking about Jack. He was capable of almost anything.

Chuck shuddered. "That thing you do with your eyes. I hope you never direct that at me."

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him quickly. "Just stay my sweetie, and you're in the clear."

Robert was staring at them, shaking his head.

The elevator opened and Ellie stepped off. She blew out a sigh. "Wow, what a night. But everyone's okay, right?" She asked the question of Sarah as she hugged her.

"Yes," Sarah replied, returning the hug, "Dad's finger was broken but he's had it taken care of. Devon is downstairs with Casey, the boss, and I don't know how that's going."

"Well," Ellie observed confidently, "Devon can handle himself. I'm just glad I left _Patel_'s and walked here, even if it was freezing and I arrived too late for all the action — and just in time for the interrogation."

"Speaking of…" Chuck whispered.

Sarah turned. Casey was marching toward her. He reached her and he grabbed her, pulling her into a mighty bearhug.

After a second of surprise, she hugged him back. Casey let go finally.

At that moment, Devon walked up, a grin on his face. He took Ellie's hand.

Casey smiled at them all, but then settled his smile on Sarah. "We'll talk about this tomorrow or the next day, but for now, _thanks_, Sarah. I knew you could do it. Solve the murder. _Everything_. Mr. Hilton is pleased, _very_ pleased."

She felt herself tear up. "Thanks, Casey. So, I still have a job?"

"Yes, of course, although we will talk about that too when the time comes."

Casey looked at Robert. "Do you have it?" Robert nodded. He picked up a key from the desk and handed it to Casey.

"The penthouse is empty tonight. Why don't you take it, Sarah? — Oh, and your roommate, Carina, was down here waiting for a long time. After I talked to..._the government folks_…" — Casey's voice dropped when he said 'government folks' — "I comped her a room for the night too, the second floor.

"It's too damn cold to be on the train or trying to find a taxi. Morgan helped her up."

Casey smiled at Sarah, then winked at Chuck. "The penthouse. — Remember, we need to talk."

Casey walked around the desk and into the office.

Chuck looked at Sarah. "I didn't see Morgan take Carina upstairs. I wonder where he is?"

Sarah gave Chuck an incredulous stare. "Do you?"

Chuck's eyes opened wide. "_Morgan_?"

"I thought Carina was grieving?" Ellie said.

Sarah shook her head. "She's been...getting over it."

There was a moment of silence, then a moment of shared, quiet laughter.

"Ellie, you still have your room, right?"

"Yes, and I am going up now." Ellie gave Devon a long kiss. "See you tomorrow?"

Devon nodded. Ellie got on the elevator; she and Devon stared at each other as the door closed between them.

Sarah took Chuck's hand again. "Good night, Devon. I'm taking a couple of days off. But I'm sure I'll see you around tomorrow or the next day."

Devon gave her a wide grin. "I suspect so." He turned and headed down the hallway to the steps, back to the basement office.

"Alright, Chuck," Sarah said, "the twenty-fifth floor awaits. The penthouse."

"We need to stop on the twentieth floor."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you left something hidden in the bathroom of 2022."

"Huh? What?"

"That bag that had _Playback _in it, and...something else. I peeked while I was alone in the room." Chuck blushed — and Sarah remembered.

"Oh, right, that..._that little_ _red nothing_. A gift from Carina. Well, assuming no one took it, we can reclaim it on our way to the penthouse."

Chuck leaned down, put his lips against her ear. "Will we have to be quiet?"

"No, Chuck," she said, instantly hot all over, and squeezing his hand in promise, "no one will hear and we can make all the noise we want."

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

* * *

Arc 1: Sudden Thaw 1-12  
Arc 2: This Fevered Spring 13-24  
Arc 3: Green Grass Glowing 25-31

* * *

A/N: An epilogue will arrive eventually and it will wrap up some loose ends, assuming folks are interested. I will say a bit more about the story in an A/N after it. Thanks for reading. Thoughts?


	32. Epilogue: Imaginal

A/N: A little sweetness at the end, and answers to a few questions.

* * *

**(She Was A) Hotel Detective**

Epilogue: Imaginal

* * *

Thursday, November 11, 1965  
The Palmer House, Chicago  
Penthouse Room

* * *

The sun was shining the next day, although Sarah and Chuck were not fully aware of it until almost noon.

They had made love before sleep and made love again afterward, and again after that. Each time, they made a joyful noise.

Sarah's heart now was thump-thump-thumping as she lay naked across the bed on her stomach, after-glowing, deliriously loose-limbed and warm and tingly — but a different tingly, a tingly that signaled the thrill in the midst of her contentment, happiness, not the prospect of danger.

Chuck had ordered brunch and there was a knock at the door.

He got up and draped the sheet over Sarah, slipped on a robe and then went to the door. As requested, the cart had been left outside. Sarah turned over and watched Chuck wheel it in. The odor reached her; it was wonderful.

"Food at last!" Chuck said as he took the silver covers off the plates. "Everything ulcer-friendly, or as much as food itself can be."

Sarah gathered the sheet around her as she sat up. "How long have you had that, Chuck? The ulcer?"

He twisted his lips to one side of his face. "Since college, I guess…"

"Oh, right, the Existentialism course, Heidegger, ..._thrownness_?"

Chuck's twisted lips released into a smile. "Um, that course didn't help, but I don't know that it was the real problem, the cause. I dated a woman there for a while. She was younger than me, a year behind me. I thought we had...an understanding..._unspoken_, I admit, but I thought we were serious, you know, beyond-Stanford-make-a-life-together serious, but she never came back to school after Christmas break my senior year. She was from out East, Hackensack. But she never called, never wrote. I tried to call once but got no answer."

"So, you have no idea what happened to her or why she left?"

Chuck looked away from Sarah.

"Chuck?"

"I do have an idea. But I never told anyone. Not even Ellie."

Chuck had been standing by the cart. He crossed behind it and sat down with Sarah. "After graduation, I had a couple of weeks before I had to start work, so I took a train to New Jersey, to Hackensack. I found her family in the phone book. So, I went to the house. I was across the street in a cab when I saw her come out of the front door. She was pregnant. I told the cabbie to drive on."

Sarah shook her head. "You left her there, _pregnant_, Chuck?"

"Yes, but you see, we never…"

"Oh, but...you dated for a while?"

"We did, from just after the prior Christmas break. But we decided we would take it slow, super slow...It was what...she wanted...and it was okay with me. I wanted her to be happy. I assumed...it would eventually happen but...it didn't. Never."

"But the math, Chuck, she must have..._while_ she was dating you…"

"Right, I worked that out too. I was too...mortified...to tell Ellie. Better to just let it go. I lied. I told Ellie I had taken a trip to Northern California. — That's why, you know, the first night, when you…"

"Showed you _my full glory_?" She grinned gently at him, trying to change the mood.

"Yes, _that_. I was shocked and I had a hard time believing you really…"

"...Wanted you?"

He nodded.

She opened the sheet and let him see her. "Still doubting?"

"No, no, baby, not doubting." He kissed her and she let go of the sheet. It slipped down as she removed his robe.

Breakfast cooled as the room warmed, and the sun slipped between the shades.

* * *

Sarah had finished dressing and Chuck was seated at the end of the bed, dressed and waiting.

The shades were open and the early afternoon sun made the bedroom seem to glow.

She looked at him from the bathroom. "Chuck, you never did tell me why you were reading that Maltz book, _Psycho-Cybernetics_?"

"Re-reading. You know I told you that since college, I not only hadn't gotten out of the starting blocks, I hadn't found them?"

"The morning you told me about that Chandler essay?"

"Yeah. Well, that's true. I felt stuck. After the woman at Stanford, Jill was her name, by the way, I became listless, everything felt lackluster — what's that line, 'to a man of disordered appetites, all things taste the same'?"

Sarah faced him and shrugged, not familiar with the quotation.

"Anyway, I just drifted along. Ellie was the only thing that seemed solid to me. I guess the thing with Jill probably dredged up all the stuff from years before with my parents, my grief and my...anger. I knew I needed to move on from all of it, but I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life or who I wanted to do it with...I think I kinda hated myself for a long time…"

"Chuck," Sarah said softly, understanding that plight.

"I read the Maltz book on a lark but some of it seemed right. Like that chapter on imagination. Remember, we talked about imagination when we met at _Patel's_?"

Sarah walked to sit beside him. "I do. Remember, that is."

Chuck gave her a quick look then went on. "So, I started trying to imagine, visualize, my future, what I wanted, _who _I wanted. Not some picture of her, or some list, just some sense of who she would be, what she would be like, and then she materialized, outstripping my imagination entirely, in _Patel's_."

Sarah blushed. "Me?"

"You."

"So you imagined me into being?"

"No, you are wonderfully _real _but you are also...a dream. My dream."

Sarah took a breath and looked into Chuck's eyes. "You understand, don't you, Chuck, that this, us, is beyond-the-Palmer-House-make-a-life-together serious?"

He looked back into her eyes. "I do." He blushed.

They sat happily together for a moment.

"Say," Chuck said, his brow contracting, "since you mentioned Maltz, why did Larkin and those _Moe's _guys take me?"

Sarah shrugged. "I'm not sure. My best guess is that Larkin screwed up. He was supposed to be following you — he was at _Patel's _because he was following you, even though he got there first. He heard your conversation about where to eat. He must have known you were going to meet Accardo at the Green Mile, and so he didn't actually _follow_ you there. He must have arrived earlier or later or in the wrong place. However it went, he missed you carrying the tape player and hiding it. Pretty amazing, really. He didn't know it was there until he caught up with you again when you returned to the Green Mill."

Sarah shook her head, frowning. "He was never a very good detective. They took you mainly to get the tape. Accardo must've caught on that you were trying to record him, and that's why he took you from the Green Mill. Probably they were hoping to improve the frame-up job on you. But I suspect taking you and all the rest was Larkin's clumsy play. Maybe Joey The Clown had a hand in it too. I'm pretty sure I heard Larkin talking to him on the phone just before I rescued you. Accardo told me the frame-up was Joey's idea.

"But that makes me wonder. Chuck, why on earth did you move into the Palmer House _after_ you found Maria Tomek?"

"I don't know for sure. What I told you was true. The noise from next door at the Blackmoor made it impossible for me to sleep. But I never imagined the frame-up then, I thought no one would suspect me. I didn't know Louisa saw me. And I guess I imagined if I was here maybe I could do something, help somehow since I'd been too late to help her stay alive. And I did, I guess, _help_, although not in the way I imagined. — So, where are we going?"

"Just downstairs. I want to check on Ellie, Devon, maybe talk to Casey...Figure out a bit more of what happened last night and gauge its fallout."

"What about later?"

"I thought we'd have more room service, a fancy dinner, and turn on some music, _dance_…"

Chuck smiled silly beneath a faraway look.

"What, Chuck?"

"Just visualizing…"

* * *

Ellie came to her door with a copy of the Tribune in her hand. "Hey, you two. I wasn't sure I'd see you today." She pushed open the door and let them in.

Devon was seated on the couch. Ellie sat down next to him. He smiled in greeting to Chuck and Sarah, but there was a hint of reluctance in the greeting.

"Hey, Devon," Sarah said, "glad you are here. Saves me a trip to the basement, looking for you."

"Holbert's in again today. I'll work tonight. Actually, I'll be training Morgan."

"So, Casey's serious about making Morgan a house detective?"

Devon nodded. "Yes, so it seems. I think he's planning to _restructure_ us, but he hasn't told me the details." Devon paused, took a breath. "Sarah, I don't know if bringing Agent Rizzo to the room last night was a good idea…She thought she might find Lakoff there; she told me. I guess she was suspicious of him, and when I told her what was going on..."

Sarah waved her hand. "It's okay, Devon. Don't worry about it."

Ellie broke in. "It was my fault. When you didn't call, I...lost it...a little," she gave everyone a small, self-conscious smile. "I sent Devon and Rizzo to you, made them hurry. I figured if Chuck got arrested we could at least get him medical attention if the poison...you know.." She closed her eyes then opened them. "I chose...the lesser of two evils, I guess…"

"I suspected as much, Ellie, maybe even expected it. And if Devon and Rizzo hadn't shown up, who knows how things would have worked out."

"Have you talked to her, Sarah?"

"No, I haven't seen her since they were reviving her and they took me out for debriefing. I don't know what's up with her, the FBI, how they will figure in all this. I hope to talk to her but I'm not going to chase her down. She's likely unhappy with me. I gummed up her investigation from the beginning."

Devon nodded. "Um...have you talked to Jack, your dad?"

"No," Sarah said through a frown. "I assume he's still at Marlena's. But who knows? He never stays in one town long…"

Devon nodded. "Say, I asked Ellie to go out tomorrow night. Why don't we make it a double-date?"

"That sounds great," Chuck said, enthusiastically, "what do you think, Sarah?"

"I agree. But, before any of us go out, we need to see where things stand. We don't have anything to worry about from the FBI or the CIA or the KGB, but the Outfit…"

Ellie held up the paper. "Special Afternoon Edition, Sarah. Accardo was taken into FBI custody this morning, along with several of his lieutenants. The head of the snake's been cut off."

Ellie handed the paper to Sarah. She took it and scanned the lead article. "It doesn't mention Rizzo by name, but I hope they gave this to her. That was fast. I guess they wouldn't take a chance on Accardo trying to use Joad as a bargaining chip. — Well, in that case, yes, to the double-date. That'll be terrific! We can stop by and meet my friend Velma. She has something Ellie will want."

The four sat and chatted for the first time without the Tomek murder and all it involved hanging over them. At one point, Sarah looked around the room, at Chuck, Ellie, Devon. She thought about them rescuing her and about what she had told Accardo at his table: _Family. _

* * *

Friday, April 8, 1966  
The Palmer House, Chicago  
Lobby

* * *

Sarah Walker, the Palmer House's head of security, smiled across the lobby and crossed her legs, brushing away a bit of imaginary lint from her uniform jacket, her leg-crossing and brushing both distractions from her visual sweep of the grand room beneath the beautiful, vaulted ceiling.

She gazed up at the ceiling, the Rigal Grecian Art Deco murals, the massive, Tiffany and Company 24-karat, gold-winged candelabras. Expensive, opulent, but also comforting. The lobby made her feel like she was home.

She gazed back down. On her hand was the engagement ring Chuck gave her, that she joyously accepted, on Valentine's Day. It sparkled at her as it always did when she looked at it.

She stood and gazed out the revolving doors at the Chicago spring, sunny and warm, if still breezy. She saw her reflection in the doors. Her hair was blonde again, the glasses gone. She was in a uniform, after all, not trying to be anonymous anymore.

Her shift was almost over and Chuck and Ellie would be along soon. Devon too.

Devon was no longer working at the Palmer House. He was a full-time student and would finish his degree at the end of the term. He'd already been accepted into UIC's medical school. Ellie had applied and gotten in too, and they had accepted her previous work at UCLA, so she was not starting over, but just picking up more or less where she had left off the summer Aidan Mills came into her life.

Ellie had moved to Chicago just after Christmas. Devon had talked to Chuck about proposing, and showed him the ring. Chuck seemed to think it would happen soon, maybe as soon as that night.

Chuck moved to Chicago at Thanksgiving. He had an apartment not far from Sarah and Carina. He had transferred to the Computer Control Systems research office in Chicago and had seemed to rediscover his love of the work there. He had already been promoted to head of one of the research teams.

They were planning a wedding in June. Casey had changed the hotel's detectives to security and made Sarah head. Morgan and Holbert worked for her, the first happily, the second less happily. But he respected her enough that he never really showed it. He was a little afraid of her, and that suited Sarah just fine.

Morgan had excelled. She trusted him. He was brave, resourceful, funny. He was eager to learn from her. He had been dating Carina since that fateful night in November, but each of them swore it was just casual. But Carina brought no one else home. Morgan never looked at any other woman, despite the regular parade of beautiful women in the Palmer House.

Casey had a long talk with Louisa but he kept her on. He even gave her a raise. Encouraged, she had become a model employee, and Casey was thinking about putting her in charge of housekeeping.

Mr. Hilton had been so impressed with Sarah that he occasionally flew her to another of his hotels to give talks on security. It had been hard for many of the men in those locations to take a woman seriously, but, usually, within a few minutes, after an icy glare, they understood their place in relation to her.

Rizzo had been the agent in charge of taking Accardo and his men. There was evidently enough information in the records, free of CIA information, to hold Accardo, to produce witnesses and corroborating evidence. Accardo had insisted that he was innocent, that the CIA had set him up, was the real culprit, but no one took him seriously and it looked like he would go to prison.

Joad had resigned by letter from the CIA. He was not seen in public again. Soon afterward, it was announced that the Agency was undergoing structural changes and personnel changes but there were never any details provided about what those were. Sarah assumed Joad was in a hole somewhere, dead or alive. _Rights were a peacetime luxury_: Joad got to confront his own words. Agent Rizzo's father was still working at the CIA, apparently not tied to Joad. But Lakoff vanished.

The arriving spring had made Sarah and Chuck think of Algernon — but they had neither seen nor heard from him and never expected that they would.

Sarah still had not seen her father since the night in November, but she had forgiven him for what he had done that night, and before that night. Marlena had stopped by the hotel earlier in the day and told Sarah that her dad was supposed to be in town on Sunday. Sarah hoped to see him, tell him her good news, — Marlena had not spoiled the surprise — see if he was well. Marlena seemed to believe he was going to stay for a while if Sarah was willing for him to. He probably would not stay long enough for the wedding, but...he might.

And that would be nice.

Her life was good. It was _good_, and it was _hers_. Chuck was the one who had read Maltz, and who told her, regularly, how much better his life was than anything he could imagine.

But, though she did not tell him as regularly, she knew hers was too. Her life not only outstripped anything she imagined for herself, but it also outstripped anything that made any sense. ...The daughter of a conman, an agent of the CIA... She had a job she loved, working for a man, Casey, she respected and who deserved her respect — and who respected her. She was in love with an amazing man, the best man she had ever known. He loved her body and soul. She would be his wife soon, and, she hoped, someday the mother of his children.

She delighted in imagining her future.

She heard Chuck call her name and she turned to him, smiling with her whole being. "Hey, sweetie!"

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading!

* * *

This story was conceived as a counterpoint to Chandler's final novel, _Playback. _That's one reason why a copy of that novel moves about through the story, beginning to end, and one reason why Chandler's essay, "The Simple Art of Murder" plays a role in the story too, and in the story's presentation of Sarah Walker.

I won't trouble you with long explanations. I do have a brief _Playback _essay on my blog (mentioned in my profile) that is relevant to what I've done in _Hotel Detective_. I also wanted to (and did) borrow bits and pieces from other favorite detective writers like Norbert Davis and Edgar Allan Poe.

Chandler's _Playback_ is a novel about Philip Marlowe radically changing the way he lives and feels. So, too, here, with Sarah Walker. As the novel begins, although she is no longer conning and has formally quit spying, she has not quit them existentially: they are still clinging to her, shaping her life and her understanding of it. The story is about her struggle to quit them existentially, even as she is forced back into them.

The epilogue title is in part for _High Fidelity_, who savors words as I do. I thought he would enjoy its complexity of meanings. My sincere thanks to Neil Horne and to Beckster1213 for some prereading and discussion of the story.

Thanks again!

_Z_


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